


The Price of Freedom

by lisajames85



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 144,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisajames85/pseuds/lisajames85
Summary: This will be a Fridget-led narration (and gap-filler/extended scenes) of Season 5, as told by Franky Doyle and Bridget Westfall.This is written in the same style as my Seasons 3-4 narration 'Out of the Blue: Book 1', with alternating points of view. I will always attempt to remain true to the characters. ENJOY!@LJKWriting4life





	1. Franky

**Author's Note:**

> Rated 'Mature' for future chapters. This story contains high level coarse language, sexual references, sex scenes, adult themes, and representations of violence.

Franky Doyle had everything in the world she had ever wanted. It was hard to wipe the grin from her face as she left her Legal Relief office and headed across the road to her favourite café, but fuck it, she was happy, and why shouldn’t she be smiling? It was the best day!

She held the green cardboard folders that were the hallmark of Legal Relief, as well as her more secure leather document wallet under one arm as she approached the counter to order. It was the middle of the day and the staff were busy; tables were full and there was a steady commotion of voices and people bustling in and out, but Franky was just going to get her usual coffee and a toasted sandwich to take away. She thought she might stop by the park down the road to eat and drink on a bench beneath dappled sunshine; she could listen to the birds before heading to the courthouse to file the non-urgent documents she was carrying.

She removed her phone from her pocket at the same time as she also retrieved her thin wallet to tap-n-go. In that wallet were four of her most important cards. Her credit card was there of course, although it was actually a second card to Bridget’s credit card account; Gidget trusted her far too much sometimes. Franky had her own bank card as well, a debit card that her salary went into, and she was also carrying her driver’s licence and Medicare card. They were evidence that she was a productive member of society and they meant so fucking much to her. They meant more to her than they did to anyone else in the café, that was for damn sure.

Franky ordered, paid, and moved to the far end of the bench near the window and bottles of table water, to look out over the street. She could put it off no longer. Her face fucking hurt.

She tucked her tiny wallet back into the pocket of her pants and then called her best mate, her girlfriend, her fucking life partner; the woman who had bought Franky her shitty little car that she loved and who always called her beautiful or ‘darling’. Franky hoped Bridget was on lunch too. Franky was early but she really wanted Bridget to answer, she wanted to tell her-

“Hey baby.” Bridget’s smooth, gentle voice nearly sang to Franky when she did pick up.

“Heya,” Franky said. In the moment she couldn’t think of what else to say. She was too happy and Bridget was going to be so fucking proud of her. Franky was proud of herself.

“You all right?” Bridget asked when Franky said nothing more for long seconds.

“You’ve got competition, Gidge,” Franky said when she did find her voice. She bit her bottom lip to try to temper her grin but also pressed the phone closer to her ear in an attempt not to let Bridget get any further away. Franky could feel her closeness just in hearing her voice. She took a deep, calming breath. “Got flowers today,” she added. “From an admirer.”

Bridget chuckled into the phone and replied with a coy, curious, “Oh really?”

It struck Franky how utterly unbothered Bridget was about that idea, but then again if it was anything serious Franky wouldn’t be swooning down the phone to her about it either.

“You on lunch?” Franky asked.

“I am, I’m in my office typing up a report.” Bridget hesitated, then asked, “So who is he?”

“How do you know it’s a he?” Franky asked. “It could be another hot chick.”

“Another? Oh, thank you, darling,” Bridget quipped. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah, you should,” Franky mumbled as her heart raced and her face flushed. “It was just Andy,” she said. She gave in way too quickly when it came to Bridget, and it had only gotten worse as the months passed. Bridget was the real tease. “I helped him out on a case last week. They’re pretty fancy though, in a box and everything. Do you want me to bring them home?”

“You better,” Bridget said. “They’ll get ripe in the stuffy office overnight without air-con.”

Franky scrunched up her nose as she thought of the smell of overripe flowers in the early morning humidity of her office, with the sun streaming straight through the glass window towards her desk. Good point, Gidget, she thought. She did not want to be responsible for anyone complaining of hay fever or doubling over from a pollen-related asthma attack. People died from that shit.

“Anyway,” Franky said on another deep breath. She was grinning again as she spoke. “I got some good news today.”

“Hit me with it,” Bridget said. She sounded partially distracted and Franky knew it was because she was at her desk, at her computer, probably trying to multi-task. Franky hoped what she had to say put a stop to that, though.

“I just got offered a permanent job, Gidget.”

“At Legal Relief?” Bridget asked.

Franky rolled her eyes and scoffed.

“No, at fucking Disney-on-Ice,” she deadpanned, before laughing. “Yes at Legal Relief. My boss just handed me my performance review, it’s stellar by the way, and he said, ‘the job’s yours permanently, if you want it’.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t even remember, hey,” Franky said as she frowned and tried to do just that. “I think I was just so taken aback. I was standing there holding my flowers, and he handed me the report, and I can’t wipe the grin off my face, Bridget. I’ve got a job, a permanent job. Me!”

“Franky, I am so proud of you,” Bridget said softly into the phone. “That’s fantastic. Time’s gone fast, hasn’t it? Six months since you started, only two months left on your parole?”

“I know,” Franky agreed. She couldn’t believe it either. In two months she would be free. Fucking FREE. It was a sobering thought, and she felt her smile fade as her heart again began to race. “I know,” she said again, even though this time she was only agreeing with herself. Freedom. What would that even be like? She looked down at her performance review that she was still carrying around on top of her court folders like it was the fucking Bible and she read the words again, as though they held all the answers to her future. “You gotta read this report, Gidge, the old guy totally wants me.”

Bridget snorted just as Franky looked up to see that her coffee cup and white take-away paper bag were in the hands of the waitress behind the counter, who was heading straight for her.

“Hey,” she said to cut Bridget off. She had to interrupt and end the call quickly because she only had two hands and one was clasping her files, the other her phone, and she did not want the waitress to have to put her order down on the counter to wait like Franky was one of those rude customers who never got off their fucking phone. “I gotta go, I’ll see you tonight-”

“Yep, bye,” Bridget said with the sort of speed and efficiency that Franky knew too well.

“-bye,” she said before hanging up. Anyone else might have been offended at how abruptly that conversation ended, but Franky knew Bridget wouldn’t hold it against her. They worked on opposite sides of the city and often checked in on their lunch break. Between Bridget’s counselling sessions with Wentworth inmates and Franky having to be at the Family or Magistrate’s Court, their conversations were often short and sweet, just like Bridget Westfall.

Franky’s mind was racing ahead at the same time as she mentally ended her conversation with Bridget, said, “Thank you very much” to the waitress, and put her sandwich to rest on top of her files in her left arm, on top of her phone and keys, and accepted the cup of coffee into her right hand. Franky decided she definitely needed more hands, and that point was proved not three seconds later as she turned to leave and promptly dropped her sandwich, phone, keys, and her files to the floor. The phone slipped first and the rest followed, and she couldn’t catch any of it without spilling boiling, milky coffee all over her hands and body.

Thankfully the instinct to save her coffee and her skin won out over the instinct to dive and reach, and with a flustered, “Oh crap!”, she bent down instead to put her coffee on the floor, gather everything back up, and go on her way with as little public humiliation as possible.

The man behind her also crouched down to help, and it brought a smile to Franky’s face.

“Sorry, thank you,” she said, in a voice she barely recognised as her own. She had only been saying sorry to people for a year and a half, or thereabouts. Vera Bennett had been the first in a long time. She was the Governor at Wentworth now, at the time she had been the Deputy Governor, and Franky remembered sitting in the prison library with Vera and Bridget in front of her, and she had looked into Vera’s blue-grey eyes and said, ‘I’m sorry Miss Bennett, I was out of line’. She was free now partly because of that moment, she wasn’t ashamed of it.

Franky let the man help her and poked her tongue out of her open mouth in disbelief that she had been such a klutz and was causing such a fuss. She actually didn’t like causing a fuss anymore. She wasn’t even sure if ‘anymore’ was the right word, because even though that had been a specialty of hers in her youth and inside Wentworth, she couldn’t remember ever really relishing in it. It had all been forced, an act, and she wasn’t that angry person anymore.

“Francesca Doyle?” the Good Samaritan at her side asked, just as she lifted her head to smile and to thank him again. They were all done, the folders were in her arms and her phone, keys and sandwich were safe; she could pick up her coffee and go, and she appreciated his help and wanted to assure him of that. Kind, random people offering to help her was so new to Franky that it was still kind of a novelty to be able to look people in the eyes and thank them. The day she had apologised to Vera and meant it, was also the first day in years that she had looked into another person’s eyes – Bridget’s eyes – and had genuinely thanked her. It was the first day anyone ever looked back with an expression that simply said, ‘you’re welcome’.

It was only as her eyes focused on the man she wished to thank that Franky noticed his burns. She saw those before any other part of him, like his greying brown hair or the grey woollen scarf wrapped around his neck, or the small mouth and deep medial cleft above his top lip that looked oddly familiar. She saw his burns before she realised he had called her Francesca.

Holy shit, she thought. Her stomach dropped into her belly as her mind supplied her with another memory, this one from nearly five years ago. She had been in her chef’s whites, they were filming for the reality cooking show, and he had been screaming at her that she wasn’t good enough. Her food wasn’t good enough, she was a shit chef, she had an attitude problem, and no one at that point knew what she was capable of. They didn’t know she had grown up with a mother who screamed in her face every other night that Franky was useless and would never amount to anything, they didn’t know that she got angry to stop the tears, because tears only led to hitting and hair-pulling and cigarette butts being stamped into soft, little-girl skin.

Franky ached as she remembered turning on Mike Pennisi, the host of that reality TV show.

“Hey Mikey-”

Boiling oil from her frying pan had swept up and over his face. He had raised both hands in self defence and they were burned too, as he fell backwards onto the kitchen tiles and screamed in agony. Franky had felt nothing in the moments that followed, she had completely shut herself off with white hot rage because that was how she had always protected herself.

She thought about it every fucking day, that split-second decision she didn’t even consciously remember making that had changed her whole life. It had led her to Bridget, yes, but with her anger well and truly under control there was no doubt she was not so well protected anymore.

And Mike was crouched on the floor of her favourite café, looking down into Franky’s eyes.

Holy fuck, Franky thought. She stood. She had to stand, she had to get out of there.

“Oh,” she heard herself say, in a gentle voice she knew he wouldn’t recognise.

“Wait,” he said as he stood with her. He was blocking her exit but Franky just wanted to get the fuck out of there. She wasn’t allowed to talk to him, she wasn’t allowed to see him, she wasn’t allowed to be anywhere fucking near him!

I’ll go back to Wentworth if I’m caught, she thought. I’ll go back to Wentworth if someone sees us together. I’ll go back to Wentworth and it will be because of an accident, because we just ran into each other and no one will believe me, and I won’t get another chance.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

“Sorry, I have to um-”

Go, you have to go, Franky told herself as she gestured past him. He didn’t move.

“Can we um, do you, do you want to grab a coffee?” he asked.

“What?” Franky asked. Her mind raced. This was bizarre, it was inappropriate, it was fucking dangerous, and she couldn’t think of anything worse. She looked into his eyes as he tried to explain. Franky didn’t remember him ever having this much trouble getting words out.

“You know, just-”

“No, it’s-” she said. Her heart was beating so fast that she stuttered too. “I can’t, I can’t be near you, it’s…breach of my parole.” Her voice lowered as she said those words – they were in a public place for fuck’s sake – and she nodded slightly to reassure herself she was correct, and also still safe. Yes she was on parole, but she wasn’t who Mike thought she was either.

They just could not do this.

“I understand that but, it’s-”

“I can’t talk, I’m sorry,” Franky mumbled as she stepped past him on thin legs, clutching her coffee, her files, all the things that she never should have dropped.

She hurried out of the nearby door. She wanted to get away, she didn’t want to face him. What was she even going to be able to say? Fucking nothing!

Franky jogged across the street, until she stopped.

Or she could say sorry, right? Since that day with Vera, Franky had said sorry to so many people. People like Liz and Boomer, and Bea, Allie. She had said sorry to her dad for threatening to bash his fucking face in, and she had said sorry to her three-year-old little sister for not being there every day of her life until after she got out of jail and their dad found her. Tessa had just giggled, hugged her and said, ‘That’s okay, Franky,’ as though she understood.

Franky had said sorry to Bridget too, a lot, and Bridget always forgave her. Everyone she had ever been brave enough to apologise to had forgiven her, even Mr Jackson, the Wentworth guard whose wife she killed in the middle of a prison riot. By accident; the former Governor.

They all forgave her even when she had committed some of the most horrific acts, and everyone walked away from those situations feeling better. Restorative justice programs helped both the victim and the offender, and Franky now did a lot of work in that space. She helped people and found joy in it. Could she really deny Mike that closure, if that was what he wanted? It couldn’t be a coincidence that he found her in that café, could it? Maybe he had sought her out, just like her dad had done earlier in the year, to talk to her. Nothing more.

Franky turned back to look into the café and saw Mike not far from where she left him. His back was turned as he waited to order. He didn’t seem angry, that was important. Bridget was still going to want to throttle her when she found out, but Franky could not deny the man she scarred for life the opportunity to sit across from her and talk about how he felt. She owed him that much, and she had been so messed up back then, Franky also wanted the opportunity to show him that she had changed, to tell him she was sorry. Then they could both be free.


	2. Bridget

Bridget used her two index fingertips to re-arrange slices of green apple on one end of a cheese board as she listened to the familiar jangle of Franky’s keys in the front door. She smiled as she perused the celebratory platter of cheese, crackers, and fruit. She also had two wine glasses ready on the bench, soft music was playing from the stereo in the nearby living room, and the lighting in the open-plan kitchen, dining and living area was muted and relaxed; lamps only. God, some people might even call it romantic, she thought with a laugh.

“Gidget, I’m home!” Franky declared as she ambled along the front hallway.

Bridget braced herself on the island bench, still standing in the kitchen, and looked across the room to greet Franky. Franky was carrying her keys in one hand and her work satchel was slung over one shoulder. She was smiling, and her mouth dropped open when she realised what she was walking into.

“Hello lover,” Bridget said. She raised her brow and smoothly whispered, “I cooked for you.”

“Ooh,” Franky said, playing along. She chuckled as her eyes swept over the cheese platter; Bridget’s idea of cooking. Bridget watched her bite her bottom lip and grin at the sight. She backtracked without turning around until the last moment, to put her satchel out of the way in the living area, before she joined Bridget in the kitchen. “New recipe, babe?” Franky asked.

“Just something I whipped up,” Bridget said as they wrapped their arms around each other. Her hands settled on Franky’s narrow hips as Franky slid one arm around Bridget’s waist and settled a hand at Bridget’s jaw, wrapping around the side of her head. Bridget sucked in a breath as their eyes met, and she saw Franky’s bright green eyes glittering with amusement.

“You’re a genius, Gidget,” she whispered, before ducking her head down to join their lips in a kiss. Bridget had been waiting for this all day. She shut her eyes and kissed Franky with enough intent and love that Franky frowned with feeling against her face and hummed against her lips. “Fuck, Bridget,” she mumbled as they parted. She pulled back and happily laughed, squeezing around Bridget’s ribcage with both hands. “What are ya doin’ to me?”

“Softening you up for later?” Bridget suggested, as though it was obvious and practical.

“Trust me, I’m softened,” Franky told her with a wise look in her eyes. “Melty.” She leant in for a more brief and playful smooch, and Bridget grinned against her lips as she obliged.

“Wine?” Bridget asked after they parted again. Franky walked around to the dining-room-side of the bench and slid onto one of the two wooden stools.

“Yes please. Whatever you feel like,” Franky said. She collected both glasses and pushed them closer to Bridget, one on either side of the cheese platter. “So, dinner looks good.”

“It’s not really dinner, darling, I was only joking.” Bridget laughed easily as she poured them both a small amount of red wine, for starters.

“I dunno, looks like a pretty fucking fine dinner to me,” Franky said. “I don’t feel like cooking.”

Bridget stopped everything and looked at her with wide eyes, not because she was worried they would both starve if Franky didn’t cook something, but because it was so unusual for her to reject that task. Franky could be wrapped up in blankets with the flu and still want to cook.

“No?” Bridget asked. She didn’t want to ask, ‘Are you all right?’ as though this was some kind of sign that something was drastically wrong. Franky was as entitled to not want to cook as Bridget was, and Bridget embraced that feeling for herself most days. She had certainly been spoiled by Franky and her culinary talents in the ten months since Franky was paroled.

“Narr, not super hungry.”

It was only then that Bridget realised what else was missing from Franky’s side that night.

“You forgot your flowers?”

“Oh,” Franky said. She sat up straighter, frowned a bit, and shook her head. “I left them at work. I got busy and forgot and I wasn’t gonna drive all the way back just to get ‘em.”

“No, of course not,” Bridget said with a soft smile. It didn’t matter. “So, busy afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Franky said with a smile. She clasped her wine glass and took a sip of red wine, and Bridget ambled around to the other stool to join her and do the same. “Tell me about your day first,” Franky said. She reached for a piece of cheese and a cracker, and ate them together as Bridget settled on her stool. “How’s Wentworth?” she asked, before going for more cheese.

“All right I guess,” Bridget said on a sigh. “A lot of the women are devastated about Bea but not talking; I don’t know if the memorial helped. The roses were a good idea, thanks babe.”

“That’s all right,” Franky said. She stretched one leg out until her toes gently jutted up against Bridget’s shin. Bridget met her eyes sadly, and Franky added, “Of course it helped”.

“We’re concerned about reprisals.”

“No shit,” Franky agreed with wide eyes.

Bridget stared into those eyes and allowed herself to feel captivated by them. They were eyes full of power and emotion and strength, but they were soft and loving as well, and in them Bridget saw Franky’s own deeply protected grief at the loss of a true friend, Bea Smith. She hadn’t cried much, but neither had Bridget.

“Is the Freak in protection?” Franky asked, speaking of the former Governor, Joan Ferguson. Labelled ‘the Freak’ by the cleverer inmates like Bea and Franky, who had recognised her psychopathic and manipulative behaviour early on in her Governorship, Ferguson had stabbed Bea twelve or so times until she died. She had used a screwdriver, and Bea died on a street outside the prison, in a place she never should have been, just as Ferguson was meant to have walked free. Bridget still did not understand what she had seen that day, but she knew enough about Wentworth to know the confrontation had been planned, to some extent.

“Joan is…unlikely to spend time in protection,” Bridget said. “She wants to be in General.”

“She’s got a fucking death wish,” Franky stated firmly. She shook her head and sighed. “Stupid fucking bitch.”

“We’ll see,” Bridget said. She took a sip of wine and then thought, ‘fuck it’, and finished her glass in a few steady, smooth gulps. She hadn’t filled the glass up far to begin with, anyway. A part of her just wanted to lie back in a hot, soapy bath and cry, but she didn’t have a bath tub, or the energy to break down and put herself back together, so the wine would do nicely.

“You’re not talking to her, are you?” Franky asked. She had stretched forward and clasped Bridget’s knee while Bridget drank. “I love ya, Gidget, and she knows that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bridget said. She met Franky’s worried eyes and smiled, she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m not talking to her. The psychiatrist sees her, I want nothing to do with her.”

“Good,” Franky whispered. She squeezed Bridget’s knee four times in quick succession, and Bridget felt warm and comforted there. “I love you,” Franky repeated. “So fuckin’ much.”

“Oh darling, I know,” Bridget whispered. Tears pricked at her eyes as she smiled again. “Cheer me up? Let’s not talk about Wentworth, it’s fucked there, we both know that.”

Franky snorted and nodded. Her eyes sparkled as she leant forward slightly and bit her bottom lip again. She wiggled her brow playfully until Bridget grinned back at her.

“Wanna see my performance review?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Bridget exclaimed. She put her empty wine glass onto the bench with a clink as Franky hummed and finished her own drink as well. She left her empty glass on the bench on the other side of the cheese platter, and went to the living room to retrieve the report from her bag. Bridget helped herself to some cheese on a cracker in that time, and a piece of apple. She did not want to get so wasted that she passed out snoring in bed before making love to her intelligent, hopeful girlfriend on the the day she was offered a permanent job.

“Here we go,” Franky announced as she jogged back and stood facing Bridget by the bench. She shook the paper demonstrably as she said, “Hot off the presses, Ms Franky Doyle”.

Bridget leant back to soak in the sight of her. Franky had a big grin on her face and looked like a kid who had worked so fucking hard all year to get straight-As on her final report, and in a way that was exactly what she had done, and it didn’t matter at all that she was thirty-five. She was so clever and conscientious, and she deserved every opportunity to succeed in life. Bridget was ecstatic that other people could now see in Franky what she always had.

“Read it to me, beautiful,” Bridget said. She lifted her left knee and clasped it with both hands to balance herself as she leant back on the backless stool.

“Pfft!” Franky blew a joyous raspberry with her lips before laughing at Bridget, but Bridget just calmly raised her eyebrows and waited with her lips pressed together in a smile. Franky cleared her throat and settled down, and held the paper in front of her. “In the last six months Franky Doyle has successfully demonstrated a wide range of positive professional behaviours. She has an excellent understanding of the law, particularly family law matters. She shows a commitment to furthering her studies in law, and her legal research skills are exceptional. She is efficient, thorough, and thoughtful. She has made an indelible impression on colleagues and enjoys working as part of a team, though she can also be trusted to speak to clients and work autonomously. She handles sensitive client data with the upmost respect-”

“Oh Franky-”

“But wait, there’s more!” Franky said. She grinned widely and held the paper less formally. “Always demonstrates a winnin’ attitude, and consistently exceeds expectation. Her proficiency in data analysis is only surpassed by her excellent communication skills-”

Bridget started clapping as Franky spread her arms and made a, ‘how good is that?’ face as she read those last words. Bridget couldn’t help the laughter that escaped too. This report was being sent to the Parole Board, it wasn’t just Franky’s six month performance review; Legal Relief knew she was on Parole and they had additional reporting requirements for her, but they took a chance on this woman and it sounded like they thought it had paid off. Big time.

“Oh! Oh!” Franky exclaimed. Her voice was full of pleasure and relief, and Bridget loved that voice, it invited her in. She got off her stool and approached Franky to embrace her.

“You’re a cunning linguist,” she mumbled in jest, as one arm wrapped around Franky’s shoulders and back, and the other clasped the side of her head, over her straight, so-fucking-soft, dark brown hair. Franky always did have a way with words, but she had never – never – been recognised by others as a people-person. Communication skills? Fuck that, what would the old Franky Doyle want to communicate with anyone for? To bash their fucking face in?

Bridget pulled Franky’s face towards hers as Franky leant in and they kissed, firm and fast. One of Franky’s hands clasped the centre of Bridget’s back as the other still held her report. She wasn’t letting that go; Bridget doubted that page had been out of her sight all afternoon.

Bridget laughed when the kiss ended and Franky playfully shoved her away.

“You’re a dirty bird,” she said.

Bridget cackled at her own play-on-words and returned to the kitchen with her empty wine glass for a top-up. If a proper dinner wasn’t on the cards for that evening, they might be able to fill up on wine and cheese and move this to the bedroom sooner, she thought. She wanted to show Franky exactly how happy she was, she wanted to put her own mouth and way with words to good use until her girlfriend held her and cried out, “Oh!” again. But first-

“Red or white, darling?” she asked.

“I’ll stick with red, eh?” Franky replied as she sat down on Bridget’s stool. She had put the report on the bench in front of her, and Bridget was soon going to read that thing from top to bottom. Hell, they’d probably stick it to the fridge with a couple of magnets. Why not, right?

Bridget perused the four bottles of red collected on the bench as she listed them out aloud.

“Cab Sav, Pinot? Oh, hang on-” She grabbed the one she wanted. “Shiraz.”

Bridget walked back to the island bench, set her glass down, and began to pour a drink.

“I saw Mike Pennisi today,” Franky said, sans warning. “At the café where I get my lunch.”

Bridget sobered immediately. She knew that name. She had seen the YouTube video like everyone else.

“Shit,” she said. She raised her eyebrows and sucked her stomach in, stunned. She braced herself on the counter like before, but there was no gleeful tone this time. “Did he see you?”

Frankly looked directly into Bridget’s eyes and her expression was soft and cautious. There was a tentative smile on her face but her joy was gone. Bridget held her breath. Had something happened? Was this why Franky didn’t want to cook that night? Had he hurt her?

“We grabbed a coffee together,” Franky said.

“You what?” Bridget asked. Her heart began to race even as she remained outwardly calm.

Franky shook her head and smiled, resigned to what had happened as she said, “It was fine”.

It most definitely was not fine, Bridget thought immediately. Franky Doyle, you know that.

She took a deep breath and did not look away from those accepting green eyes. They were the eyes of a kind woman who accepted Bridget; Franky accepted what she was about to say.

“Franky, that’s a breach of your parole.”

“What, and back staying with you isn’t?” Franky replied quickly, in an earnest voice. She had planned that retort, Bridget recognised, and it was true. They weren’t meant to be living together, and Franky did still have her bedsit that she could stay at, but they had tried living apart and they were in love and they barely saw each other when Franky didn’t stay over, and as far as parole violations went, it was minor compared to coffee with the man she assaulted.

“What if he reports you?” she asked. It seemed like the obvious thing Mike might do; he had to still be pissed off, bitter, and that would only lead to one thing. Wentworth. Franky could be forced back to Wentworth because of something that started out as a fucking coincidence. So they both visited the same café, so what? The world was small like that sometimes, and it hadn’t necessarily been a violation of her parole until they sat and had coffee and catch-ups.

Bridget didn’t want her back inside. Wentworth had changed, but Franky had changed more.

“He won’t!” Franky insisted with a whine to her tone that alerted Bridget to the fact that even Franky wasn’t one hundred percent sure about that. She wanted to trust Mike; God, Franky was so fucking trusting these days. When did that happen? She knew she was good at reading people and she had really bought in to this idea that most people in the world weren’t out to hurt her, or trick her, and they were good and decent people just going about the sort of ordinary life that Franky now had for herself as well. “He was good,” Franky added, as though to prove Bridget’s point. “You know it helped us, Gidge,” she said. “I feel like a weight’s been lifted. I feel free.” She smiled at Bridget, and Bridget knew Franky believed it. Bridget was glad that Franky felt free, she loved her, but fucking hell, now she was scared.


	3. Franky

Franky was sitting at her desk at Legal Relief when her mobile phone began vibrating on the table. She prided herself on being neat and organised at work, and there were no files scattered beneath the phone that would have muffled the shuddering, mechanical whir. Franky paused her typing and looked down to see who was calling. 

It wasn’t lunch time, so it was not the right time for Bridget to call unless something had gone seriously wrong, like the day Bea was killed. Bridget had called her as soon as she could, because she hadn’t wanted Franky to hear about it on the news. Franky had seen Bridget’s name when her phone vibrated and had answered with a big smile on her face. She had since buried the pain that then ripped at her insides when she’d heard Bridget crying.

Forget it, she told herself again quickly. Her phone said that today this was a private number, so she picked it up and put it to her ear. 

“Hello?” she asked, still distracted by work and the past. At Legal Relief she always answered phones with her name, something like, ‘Hi, Legal Relief, this is Franky Doyle’, but not her mobile phone, not for a private number. No names was just a safer approach, in case anyone calling recognised her name only to laugh or abuse her, or they found her email address and sent her links to the YouTube video of what she’d done, as if she hadn’t seen it!

“Francesca,” the male caller said. 

Franky hesitated as she instinctively reacted, first, to being called Francesca for the second time in two days. Bridget could whisper Franky’s full name in her ear or against her cheek, or playfully call out to her with a very bad Italian accent; sometimes she even said it half-asleep, and when she did it was dripping with love and there was no link for Franky to her mother or the anger or abuse, but no one else could ever or would ever get away with it, not without her correcting them. ‘It’s Franky,’ she always said, and she smiled, and no one gave her any shit.

Unlike this guy, she realised as her eyes went wide. She recognised the voice she only became reacquainted with the previous day. He still struggled to string more than two words together. Did that mean anything? Was his throat scarred? Was he nervous? Was he faking it? 

“It’s…it’s Mike. Pennisi.”

Holy fuck, Franky thought. Was it still a parole violation if he called her? How was that even possible? She turned her head to look towards her boss. She didn’t want him to know, she wanted to make sure no one could hear them. Her boss was busy at his desk across the room though, talking to one of the other solicitors. No one else was paying her any attention.

“Are you there?” Mike asked.

“How’d you get this number?” Franky asked. She’d had the phone for less than a year, obviously, and she didn’t just give her number out. Bridget had her number, her dad had her number, Bridget’s dad had her number, Vera Bennett had her number, and her bosses, but at work she only ever gave people her office number. The only other time she gave anyone her mobile number was when she was ordering stuff online, but could he really hack into all that? Her parole officer had her phone number too, of course. What if this was some kind of test?

Don’t be stupid, she told herself as Mike kept talking. Her parole officer had better things to do, he was one of the good guys, and he liked her too much to set her up like this. 

“It was so great talking to you yesterday, I was hoping we could meet for another coffee.”

Let him down easy, be polite, speak softly, Franky told herself as her heart thudded. She leant forward and ducked her head. She did not want anyone to overhear and ask, ‘Who was that?’ once she hung up. Bridget always said Franky was an awful liar, that her eyes gave her away. 

“Ah Mike, it was terrific seeing you but um, unfortunately we can’t do that again.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Fuck, wasn’t it obvious? Hadn’t they covered that the previous day? Franky turned her head to look over her shoulder again. Her boss was still occupied, no one was behind her. 

“Cos it’s a parole violation,” she whispered in a firm but hopefully still kind voice. 

“Well…that didn’t seem to bother you yesterday,” he said. 

Oh, hadn’t it? Franky rolled her eyes. She thought she remembered being pretty fucking freaked out and clear about it, actually. Didn’t he understand it had been a one-off thing?

Try again, she thought as patiently as possible. 

“Yeah well like I said, it was great seeing you-” Fuck. She stopped talking when she felt someone approach and turned slightly to see her colleague as they left a collection of papers on her desk. “-you know seeing you was great,” she continued once he had walked on. “But we can’t, it was a one-off.” She shook her head and gestured, even though he couldn’t see.

“I…well maybe we just chat, I-uh…o-o-over the phone,” Mike said, stuttering, hopeful.

Franky couldn’t believe his bone-headed, naïve persistence. They barely knew each other, they never liked each other. She couldn’t talk to him and didn’t want to. It wasn’t worth it.

“Nuh,” she said. “No I’m really sorry but um, just please don’t call me again?”

She hung up before he could answer, and dropped her phone to her desk. Eyes wide, both her hands rose to grasp her temples and smooth her hair back towards its ponytail. Holy fuck, she thought again. What was all that about? Did he ‘like’ her? No, not possible. Did he want to dwell on the past with her? Move on! Some guys just could not take no for a fucking answer!

Franky hesitated then. She hoped she had been clear enough, but what if she hadn’t? What if he kept calling? Or what if Bridget was right, and Mike reported her to the Parole Board because she rejected him? She had to make sure that if that happened, other people knew. At this point, it could all still be explained, she was one hundred percent confident about that. Technically she had breached her parole, but if she just had the chance to explain, then surely it would make sense to them. These things happened, and it wasn’t her fault he called her. 

She turned to see that her boss was free, and stood just as he also stood and began walking towards her with a green folder in his hands.

“Hey Mr Strathairn, can I talk to you about some-”

“Subpoena for the Begley file,” he said as he handed her the folder. He was looking at the folder as he he put in her hand, not at her face. “You’ve got twenty minutes to get that to the registry.” The look in his eyes when he did look up told Franky that even if he had heard her semi-concerned tone, her concern still wasn’t as important as a filing deadline.

“Yeah I’m on it,” she told him as she reached for her bag and keys. She put the urgent delivery in her bag this time; it was a windy day and she did not want to drop any more files. 

Franky jogged down the steps to street level and walked over to where she had parked her car. A lot of the other staff parked there as well, in a back lot off the main street. Her car was old, the dark paint was chipping on the bonnet and it still had one of those metal antennas for the radio that stretched up over the driver’s side door. But it was zippy, good just for getting around, and it didn’t use up a lot of fuel. If she and Bridget wanted to go for a long drive they took her car, but Franky loved that Bridget had forked out a few thousand dollars for this one.

‘Listen, let’s go for a spin,’ Bridget had said one night after visiting Franky at her bedsit. Franky had only been out on parole a matter of weeks, and Bridget had dug into the pocket of her pants and had retrieved a set of car keys and held them out to her. ‘Why don’t you drive me home and stay for dinner?’ she had asked. A sleepover after dinner was of course implied.

‘Drive you home?’ Franky had asked with wide eyes. ‘In your car?’

‘No, in yours.’

Like fuck, who did that for someone? Even someone they were fucking? Franky still couldn’t believe it. She took such good care of this shitty little car. Financially she couldn’t pay Bridget back like she had promised, not yet anyway, but she hoped she had paid her back in other ways, by proving that Bridget’s faith in her was not misplaced, and she was worthy.

Franky went to unlock the car with her key – it didn’t even have central locking, for fuck’s sake, but that made it retro and cool so whatever – and she noticed a yellow envelope pinned under the windscreen wiper on the driver’s side. It was about A5 size, and Franky removed the keys from the car and reached for it; bigger than a standard letter but not big enough to fit an A4 page in without folding it in half first. She didn’t see envelopes like it much anymore.

Franky looked around to the car behind her, to see if there was a yellow envelope there as well. It didn’t look like ordinary advertising, and she was right, the car behind her had no yellow envelope under its windscreen wipers, and neither did the SUV beyond it. Shit. 

Franky reached for it and opened it. It wasn’t even sealed properly, it opened right up with a flick of her fingers, and within a second she was faced with its contents. They were photographs, and not the standard four-by-six inch ones, but bigger, five-by-seven or six-by-eight, even. Franky didn’t know and it didn’t matter anyway, because there were a lot of them and they were bad. Awful. 

The first was a photo of her and Bridget taken on the street at night. Franky hurriedly thought back to when that might have been taken. She thought she remembered when it was. 

She and Bridget rarely went out together, and it wasn’t just because Franky was on parole and wasn’t meant to be living with Bridget. No, when it came to evenings out it was more a problem because Bridget was a psychologist and Franky had been her patient. They had started a physical relationship as soon as Franky walked out of prison and Bridget picked her up. They had kissed for the first time then, and it had been fucking amazing, but if they were honest about it they had started a serious emotional relationship much earlier on. 

There was nothing in Franky’s list of parole conditions that said, ‘thou shalt not fall in love with thy psychologist’, but sexual misconduct in the practice of a registered health practitioner’s profession was notifiable conduct under the national laws that governed the regulation of health practitioners, and anything that amounted to conduct substantially below that which would otherwise be reasonably expected of another practitioner of similar education and experience would amount to professional misconduct. Franky was a law student and paralegal; of course she had looked it up. She had looked it up when she was still in prison, actually. If she and Bridget were out and about acting like a couple and someone recognised them, or if they recognised one and found out about the other, they could report Bridget to her own Board, and she could lose not just her job, but her licence to practice. 

So it was no wonder that they didn’t go out that much and they were’t big on public displays of affection. The night this photograph had been taken? It was a balmy summer’s night and they had gone to a gay bar for a drink and a bit of a dance. Nothing fancy; Franky thought they would be safe there and they even had a fucking delicious pash on the dance floor. But on the street she had clearly put her arm around a much shorter Bridget’s shoulders. Bridget’s arm was around Franky’s waist, and Bridget was looking at her with that self-assured, appreciative look she got on her face sometimes. They had been drinking, they had relaxed. 

Fuck. 

The next picture was just as bad, and worse for Franky especially. She and Bridget, walking up Bridget’s driveway towards her home in casual clothes. 

And another one, taken on a different day, when they were both clearly in their corporate clothes; Bridget welcoming Franky home from work. Franky remembered that day too, because it had been one of those rare and hilarious moments where they both arrived home at the same time. Franky had pulled up behind Bridget at the final set of traffic lights before their turn-off, and Bridget had led the rest of the way home. She had pulled into the driveway and had gotten out of her car while Franky parked on the street. They were both laughing. 

‘Are you stalking me now, darling?’ Bridget had called out loudly, as Franky ambled up the drive with her arms outstretched, as though to ask her the same thing. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Narr!’ Franky had said with a playful shake of her head. ‘It’s not like you’re hot or anything. Your ass is pretty awesome, but why stalk ya when you let me squeeze it whenever I want?’

‘Mm, I don’t know about that,’ Bridget had replied when Franky met her at the back of Bridget’s VW. They had both laughed as they hugged in greeting, and kissed on the lips, and when they parted to go inside with their arms still around each other, Bridget had reached down to briefly squeeze Franky’s own bum. ‘I know I’d follow you to get my hands on this gorgeous piece of ass,’ she had said in a quiet, cheeky voice. ‘Love ya, baby.’ 

Christ, Franky hoped whoever took these hadn’t been recording as well. 

‘Are you stalking me now, darling?’

It wasn’t funny anymore, Bridget.

The next picture Franky knew as well, and she sucked in a breath as her eyes welled with tears, because it was only at that point she realised how long this had been going on. It was taken through the front living room window of Bridget’s old house, the one she had been living in when Franky first got out of Wentworth. For four months, Franky had practically lived there with Bridget, until she made the decision to move out, to go back to the bedsit and to try to prove to herself that she could be as independent as anyone else. She and Bridget had still seen each other, but Franky rarely spent the night. It had lasted a while, a few months, probably not long enough, because one night only two months ago Bridget had held her and looked into Franky’s eyes after making love and asked, ‘Move with with me, sweetheart?’

Franky’s eyes had filled with tears and she had pressed her lips together to try to stop herself from crying as she just nodded. She nodded until she could manage the word, ‘Yep’. 

But over that period of time when Franky wasn’t living with her, Bridget had moved. She was sick of the area, she had said. Prices had boomed and the rates were too high now that she was basically being paid a government salary, as opposed to the cash she had made in private practice in her younger years. Franky took one look at the rates bills and nearly spit out her coffee. So she had helped Bridget clean and pack and they talked about other suburbs.

Bridget sold the house quickly at auction and made a disgustingly large capital gain, given she had owned the property for less than a decade. She paid out the mortgage, invested the surplus, and was renting again in a suburb closer to the city. Franky had been sad to see the old house go, especially the large kitchen with its solid benchtops and large island. It had possessed a funky, modern vibe inside but retained its older charm on the outside, and she was just glad that there was a young family in there now, growing up in a safe space.

Or maybe not so safe, she reasoned as she stared at this fourth photograph. It was taken the night Franky first got offered her job with Legal Relief. Four months into her parole, and after more rejections than she could even remember anymore, she had finally gotten the call to say that she had the job for a six month probation, full-time. She had been so excited she pulled Bridget up out of her dining room chair and away from her work so that they could dance and kiss and have a laugh in the living room, as the Divinyls played on the stereo. 

But that was six months ago. Someone had been following her and Bridget for at least six months, taking photographs of her and Bridget at home, on the street, in places where they had a right to feel safe and relaxed, and at times they were being intimate? There were more photographs in her hand too, but she got the fucking message; she would look at them later. 

Franky instead looked up and around. It was sunny, the wind was fresh. This was the world she had confidently been walking around in all this time. She thought she knew who wanted to take it away from her, and she thought she knew why. She couldn’t see him, though.


	4. Bridget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a sexually explicit content.

Bridget touched the sheets to make sure they were dry, even as she made the bed with them. They had been left on the line until after dark, then bundled up by Franky and dumped on top of the mattress. They were cool to the touch but didn’t feel damp, and it was a dry and breezy night. Bridget would cover them with the quilt to warm them up in preparation for bed, and it would be fine. She used to get cold in bed, and there was a time when she might have switched on the electric blanket for half an hour while she showered and brushed her teeth, but if she could convince Franky to join her for an early night that wouldn’t be necessary.

Bridget thought Franky could probably do with the sleep. She had seemed tired over the last few days, and she hadn’t been sleeping well since Bea’s death. She didn’t always sleep well anyway, she had trouble switching off and she was plagued by nightmares of Wentworth or from when she was a little girl, her mum’s abuse, the shit that went down in her foster homes; Franky talked to Bridget about that stuff but Bridget couldn’t make it better, even if she tried.

She made the bed that Franky – had she been in a better frame of mind – would have made without question. Franky could be a real neat-freak, and it had been particularly evident in the first few weeks and months after she was paroled, when she was still in the habit of needing to know exactly where all her stuff was. Everything had a place and if something wasn’t where she expected it to be, watch out. In those early days she would panic, get frustrated, and she even cried once when Bridget helped to calmly direct her to where she had stored whatever-it-was Franky had lost. Franky hadn’t cried because she was angry or anything like that; she had crumpled into a sobbing mess of, ‘I’m sorry’, and, ‘I’m tired’, and, ‘I’m trying’.

Bridget knew she was trying, and she had been trying so fucking hard for a long time now. She deserved fresh sheets put on the bed for her, neatly, just how she liked it, and she deserved Bridget to take her to bed and straddle her for a back rub and a few gentle kisses. She felt privileged that Franky her Bridget see her at her weakest, and given that Franky had barely said a word over dinner and the energy she brought into their home was sad and muted, it was clear that she was feeling down. Bea really hadn’t been dead for that long.

Bridget finished making the bed and combed her fingers through her short hair as she looked at it. It was still strange to see their things in this house. The interior was older and somehow that made her furniture look older too. The bright green dining table that she loved looked more tacky and old fashioned than funky, in a kitchen-living area that was dressed more in shades of yellow than of black and white, and she did miss the natural light that would stream in through the master bedroom of a morning, and the French doors that led to her back deck.

It’s okay, she told herself as she took a deep breath. This wasn’t permanent, she was only renting, and the important thing was that since Franky had moved in – since Bridget had been brave enough to ask – this did feel more like home. It really hadn’t until then, not for either of them. They’d had a better house, sure, but Franky was in the kitchen washing dishes like she would have there, and soon they could get into bed together to sleep in fresh, familiar sheets.

“Looks good,” Bridget said to herself with a satisfied smile. She put her hands on her hips, and went in search of her partner.

Franky hadn’t even gotten to the washing up yet and Bridget let out a breath when she saw how slowly she was moving. She was stacking the dishwasher with the night’s dirty dishes, but even from afar Bridget could clearly see that the dishwasher was mostly full of clean plates and mugs and cutlery from the day before. Franky hated when they forgot to empty the dishwasher and one of them – specifically Bridget – absentmindedly, apparently, ‘ruined the entire lot’, just by dropping in a knife with bread crumbs and Vegemite on it. Yet here Franky was, putting a couple of dirty plates right up against all the clean ones. What was she doing?

She’s tired and emotional, Bridget thought. Be gentle with her.

“Hey,” Bridget sang in a soft voice, as she walked to Franky and reached for her. “They’re all clean, I just haven’t emptied it.” She rubbed Franky’s back with her right hand, as Franky hesitated and turned back to look more closely at the open carriages.

“Oh shit,” she said, sighing. She dropped her head and turned away slightly. 

Bridget patted her back and gave it another rub, as she quickly dismissed Franky’s concerns.

“Doesn’t matter, they can all go through all again.” She laughed, because it was pretty bloody funny, and because she didn’t want Franky to beat herself up about it. It didn’t matter. 

Franky leant forward to put the last dirty plate in with the clean ones, and berated herself in the quietest whisper. Bridget almost didn’t hear the fairly devastated-sounding, “oh fuck”, but she felt it in Franky’s sigh, a sigh that captured the last two letters of the curse and silenced it.

Bridget slid her hand to Franky’s lower back and affectionately scratched at her through her sweater and flannel shirt. One back rub coming right up, she thought. But first-

“You’re off with the fairies tonight,” she said. It was an invitation for Franky to explain.

Franky stood up straighter and turned to look down into Bridget’s eyes. She might have looked startled if she didn’t look so tired.

“Am I?” she asked.

“Mm,” Bridget hummed. She watched Franky grimace, the dimples in her cheeks drew inwards to become more pronounced, and a look of acceptance washed over her face. Yeah, she was distracted, and she knew it. Busted. Bridget looked up into her eyes and asked a question she thought she already knew the answer to as well. “Are you thinking about Bea?”

She smiled a little and tried to convey her joint sadness, as she watched Franky take a second to decide whether to deny it. Franky soon nodded and turned in towards her. 

“Yeah,” she said.

The hand that was still on Franky’s back rose up to wrap around her neck as Bridget lifted her other arm to drape over her shoulder. Franky held Bridget’s hips before she joined her hands at Bridget’s lower back. They rocked comfortably from side to side, from one foot to the other, and Bridget looked steadily into Franky’s lowered, sad green eyes as she spoke. 

“I know it’s a cliché but time does heal all wounds.”

Not very much time had actually passed, barely any time at all in fact, but Bridget wanted to remind her that it would get better. They would find out what happened to Bea, and Ferguson would be held responsible. Allie was alive; Liz and Boomer and Maxine were safe as well. 

Maybe Franky was thinking about them too, because she mumbled, “Could have been me”.

“Nuh,” Bridget said in a sure, calm voice. With her arms draped over Franky’s shoulders and crossed at the wrists behind her neck, Bridget lifted one hand and briefly supported the back of Franky’s head, high up beneath her ponytail. Bridget didn’t even want to think about what Franky was suggesting. She had worried about it once, more than once, but not anymore. “You always had hope,” she added, a kind reminder that she should hold on to that hope now.

Franky grimaced again, as though she didn’t quite believe that, and those dimples briefly resurfaced. Franky had spent her childhood being told by her mother that she was ugly, that her pain would never end, and even though she had consciously rejected the abuse she had also spent most of her adulthood fulfilling the prophecy; rejecting the idea that life could be better because of who she was and how she felt, and not quite believing she was beautiful, either. But those dimples? Bridget loved her face, every part of it. Franky was feeling low, she looked so serious, but Bridget had never felt so happy. If Bea’s death and Allie’s survival had proved anything to Bridget, it was that life was short and the death of a loved one was sometimes unexpected. She didn’t want to lose Franky, neither of them was ready for that. 

She allowed herself to smile and to speak wistfully, as she looked around at this small, dim kitchen they both found themselves in, hoping to draw Franky in, to show her she was home.

“And we’re alive,” Bridget said as they swayed. “And we’re happy.” Her smile widened when out of the corner of her eye she saw Franky’s face broaden into a closed-lip smile. Ah, Franky remembered she was happy, Bridget thought with a grin. Good. They looked into each other’s eyes and Bridget lifted up onto her tiptoes to be eye-to-eye with Franky even in her heels. “And I’m loving my life,” she added in a gentle, soothing voice. They pressed their faces nearer. Bridget just wanted openly disclose; to make her feelings on the matter clear.

They were nose to nose when Franky hummed. She pouted a little, briefly. Franky felt so much, so deeply, and her never-ending well of empathy was almost always hidden below the surface. That soft, sated noise from between her closed lips was the only evidence of how much emotion Bridget knew Franky was trying to process; grief and love had filled her up. 

Bridget moved in to kiss her. They continued to rock slowly as the kiss lingered, and Bridget allowed herself to also be sated and aroused by how intimate and loving they could be. She felt Franky relax, and Bridget wanted her. She wanted to lie down with her and to keep kissing her, she wanted to be naked with her in their bed. Some days Bridget still had to consciously give herself permission to accept her own desires, but at the same time it was easy. She had never felt so safe or content, or so wholly loved as she did with Franky Doyle.

When the kiss ended, Bridget pulled her head back to look up into Franky’s lowered gaze.

“I’m gonna go to bed early tonight, what about you?” she asked, before Franky quickly leant in again. Bridget opened her lips to capture Franky’s in another kiss. It was more brief than the last, but no less promising, given the smile that came to Franky’s face when they parted.

“I’ll be there soon,” Franky assured her. She hummed and let her hands fall at once to rest on Bridget’s hips and bum, as Bridget stretched up to brush their noses together. When their eyes met and as her hands fell away, Franky added a little nod, a silent, ‘yep, I’m okay’ in her expression and in the movement of her mouth, and Bridget was satisfied. She was all right.

“Okay,” Bridget whispered with their faces pressed together and their eyes mostly shut. Her arms were still draped over Franky’s shoulders, and as they parted, her hands rose to clasp either side of Franky’s face. Bridget briefly held her there as she stepped back and smiled. She let her hands soon fall away as well, and walked out of the kitchen to get ready for bed.

First, to the shower.

*

“Bridget, are you asleep?” Franky hissed some time later, as she crouched by Bridget’s side of the bed and rested her chin on Bridget’s pillow. Bridget usually slept on her right side, facing the centre of the bed, and so given that she was on her left side, facing outwards, of course she was not asleep. She had just been dozing, waiting for her love to come to bed. 

“Mm, no,” she hummed as her eyes fluttered open. Franky’s wide, earnest green eyes were only inches from her own. Though the room was dark, Bridget could still see straight into them. Franky looked hopeful, that was important. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“I put the dishwasher on, took the rubbish out, got distracted by my phone, the usual.”

“I thought I smelled something burning,” Bridget said as she yawned and rolled onto her back. Franky tugged the blankets down to Bridget’s hips and shook her head. She stood, balanced one knee on the mattress, and leant over to help Bridget out of her black singlet.

Franky said nothing and Bridget dismissed her own concerns with a quiet, “Mm, must be the neighbours”. Bridget took a deep, calm breath, and lifted her arms lazily over her head. She wriggled around to help Franky rid her of her shirt, and laughed a cheeky laugh when she tried to grab the thin fabric around her own chin. She made Franky tug it off her with a scoff. 

“You’re a hassle,” Franky teased. She leant over Bridget with both hands pressed into the mattress either side of her, and looked deep into her eyes. “But you’re so fuckin’ sexy.” 

Bridget’s abdomen clenched with arousal as she sucked in a breath and nodded, and Franky ducked her head to kiss Bridget soundly. 

Bridget lifted her head to meet her and opened her mouth to immediately greet Franky’s parted lips and warm, wet tongue. The force of Franky’s passionate kiss quickly pushed Bridget back down against her pillow and she groaned and reached for Franky’s hips, to urge her onto the bed properly and to guide Franky down to lie across her. 

Franky straddled her, and they parted only so Franky could sit up and take her own clothes from the day off; her sweater, her flannel shirt. Bridget sat up and eagerly clasped Franky’s waist. She ducked her head and pressed open-mouthed kisses across Franky’s stomach. She rubbed her cheeks and closed eyes over the lacy cup of Franky’s bra, which held inside it a full, soft breast. The pressure on her breast and over her nipple made Franky moan, and she held Bridget’s head close with one hand, while her other twisted behind her back to unclip her bra. Bridget helped her pull it off and her lips quickly closed around the peak of Franky’s left breast. Franky still straddled her, and threaded one set of fingers through Bridget’s short hair, while her other hand covered one of Bridget’s own, smaller breasts to knead it. Her thumb and index finger closed around a sensitive nipple and worked it into a hard peak.

As Bridget tried to focus on bringing pleasure to Franky, Franky thrust against her abdomen. Bridget was only in her underwear, but Franky was still wearing her pants as well. Bridget unbuttoned and unzipped them, and when one of her hands slipped inside Franky’s pants and her underwear to touch her, Franky threw her head back and loudly moaned. She was wet and soft and swollen to touch, and she pinched Bridget’s nipple more firmly. Bridget soon had to let go of Franky’s breast to rest her face against damp skin. Her heart was racing and she flushed hot, her vision closed in. She screwed her face up amid her own dizzying arousal.

“Fuck, timeout,” she hissed. She had been half-asleep, her body wasn’t prepared for this.

Franky ducked her face into the top of Bridget’s head and kissed her as their grip on each other softened. Franky wrapped her arms around Bridget and held her lovingly against her torso. She combed long fingers through Bridget’s hair, while Bridget’s hand remained inside Franky’s pants. She continued to stroke Franky’s labia and clitoris in a slow, circular motion that Bridget knew would bring her to orgasm, as long as Bridget didn’t pass out first.

“Breathe, you’re okay,” Franky whispered into the top of Bridget’s head, before she kissed Bridget’s forehead and moaned because of Bridget’s intimate touch. “Better than okay.”

“Franky?” Bridget asked moments later when she could sit up straighter. Franky’s hand moved from the back of her head to her jaw, and they stared at each other. Franky shifted slowly on her knees against Bridget’s hand and around her trapped thighs, and her eyes were wide and darkened with arousal. They did focus on Bridget though, and Bridget raised her brow. She didn’t want to stop this, but she had to say it. “You smell a bit like fire, darling.”

“Do I?” Franky asked, genuinely curious but not appearing to be concerned. 

Bridget nodded, and attempted to search Franky’s eyes with her own in the dark. Franky quickly shut her eyes, but Bridget knew that it wasn’t because Franky was avoiding her, but because Bridget’s fingers were now solely circling the swollen head of Franky’s clitoris, and Franky’s hands had moved to Bridget’s shoulder and waist to clutch her and hold herself up. 

“Okay, it was me, I had to burn something,” Franky said in a rushed, breathless voice. She sank her front teeth into her bottom lip and moaned with pleasure for long seconds. “Oh shit, please don’t stop, Gidget. Please, it was nothing, I’ll tell you in the morning. I just want us to be alive together tonight, I want us to fuck and make love. I’m happy, and so fucking tired.”

“I know, it’s okay,” Bridget said. Anyway, Franky had probably just burnt a piece of personal mail that she hadn’t been bothered to rip up before throwing out, no big deal. “Do you know how much I love you, Franky?” Bridget asked, as tears pricked at her own tired eyes. Until their relationship, Bridget didn’t think ‘make love’ had been a part of Franky’s vocabulary. “I wasn’t teasing before,” Bridget added. “I love my life with you. We’ll sleep soon.” Franky pressed her lips together and scrunched her face up; it was full of tension and emotion as she nodded and bit back a sob, still with her eyes closed. She was beautiful, Bridget thought.


	5. Franky

With two months until Wentworth and her parole became a mere memory, Franky prided herself on being pretty chilled about life, but she was paranoid when it came to those green folders. She was constantly double-checking that she had everything she needed, because most of the time it was so damn hard to tell, and yet everything in those folders was always so important. Six months with Legal Relief, and she still wasn’t used to the fact they were all fucking green. She thought someone might have invented a system of colour-coding, or perhaps they even could have branched out into random colours – look out, danger! – but nope, all green, all the time. She was walking down the street towards work with her head down, checking for the third time since leaving court that, yes, she was still holding all five folders. 

If she ever climbed the ranks and became a hot-shot lawyer for Legal Relief, Franky decided that she was going to take a risk on red, or pink, or blue! Rainbow filing would be mandatory.

“Francesca!” 

A friendly-sounding voice called out behind her, but Franky knew better than to believe everything she heard. She turned around, and sure enough Mike was striding towards her with a smile on his scarred face and apparently not a care in the world. Bullshit, she thought.

“Ah, that’s synchronicity,” he declared as he came to stand in front of her. “I was just going to the café, I thought you might want-”

“What’s with the photos, Mike?” Franky asked, cutting him off immediately.

“What photos?” he asked.

Oh, fuck you, Franky thought. The photos. The photos! The seven photos of her and Bridget that Franky had laid out across Bridget’s green dining table the night before and then burned in Bridget’s sink. The seven photos that she hadn’t told Bridget about even after promising that she would, and a part of her had really wanted to tell Bridget; tell her fucking everything! 

‘A credit card statement,’ she had said instead, as they stood in the kitchen together that morning making breakfast. ‘I keep forgetting to take it to work to shred it. Stupid, huh?’ 

‘No,’ Bridget had replied. ‘But we might not start lighting up all our mail in the sink, it’s a bit of a hazard, yeah?’ She had picked up Franky’s nearest hand and kissed her fingers. It was lovely. ‘I’d hate for you to get burned, darling,’ she had added in a gentle but serious voice.

If Bridget had given any thought to the many women who got their hands burned in the steam press at Wentworth, or to the burns she gave to Mike Pennisi, the crazy asshole standing in front of Franky now for the third time in three fucking days, then she hadn’t said anything. 

And it was pissing Franky off no end that Mike wasn’t talking either. 

“Stop playing games,” she said quickly. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“No, God no,” he said, replying just as rapidly with his usual stutter. “No, I just, I just wanted to irritate you, that’s all.”

No way, Franky thought as she turned away from him. She didn’t believe him, she couldn’t get a read on him, there was something wrong. Usually she only had to look into someone’s eyes and have a quick chat to them and she had them pegged. Were they hard or soft? Calm or anxious? Guilty or not-guilty? Smart or a bit dim? Straight or gay? Did they use their super powers for good or evil? All those kinds of things. But she couldn’t see any of it in Mike.

It wasn’t normal, this wasn’t right, and Franky was going to get the hell out of there. She was tired, she had been feeling sick for days because of this man. After sex with Bridget she had cried herself to sleep over Bea and the photos and how unsafe she felt, and she had barely eaten breakfast that morning. She had hugged Bridget so tight before she left for work.

Bridget wasn’t a fool, but Franky felt like a fool hiding all of this bullshit behind the death of Bea Smith. The thing was, Bridget believed her, because Bridget was grieving Bea’s death too; she had to work with that grief every day. Franky felt like she was cheating both of them.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa!” Mike called. 

Franky turned and stared at him. Couldn’t he just fuck off? Just fuck off, Mike, she thought.

“I just think after everything…you owe me a little bit of your time,” he then said. He spoke clearly, no stutter, and Franky’s stomach wrenched. She knew that stutter had been fake. He played her, and all that talk at the café? He played her too fucking well. She fucking knew it!

“I can’t be seen with you,” she said. Again.

“Why? Because of my face?” 

It was the first time Franky had seen a genuine emotion cross his expression at the same time as she heard it in the tone of his voice. He was angry. Seething. Well fuck it, so was she.

“Because of the law!” she exclaimed. “Now I’m sorry for everything but we can’t do this.”

“Yeah, I actually don’t think you’re terribly sorry,” he said. The smallest, menacing, self-satisfied smile touched his scarred lips and Franky stared at him in earnest with wide eyes. 

There was a part of her that she held inside herself, little more than a memory, that wanted to get angry, to scream at him and tell him that he was a fucking prick and an asshole and he was the one that provoked her that day, after abusing her day after day after day in front of the cameras, while everyone laughed. Of course she wasn’t fucking sorry! He deserved it!

That anger was so disconnected from her now though, and mostly she was just hurt that he didn’t believe her. She was hurt that someone didn’t trust her. She actually had been sincere in that café, she really did think about what she did to him every day. She didn’t always regret it, how could she? But she thought about it. At her most vulnerable, she was sorry. She never wanted to be like her mum, she never wanted to be that woman people feared or hated.

I’m a good person, she thought calmly. And this guy? He wasn’t worth any more of her time. 

“I gotta go to work,” she said. She turned to leave again, but he reached for her. He grabbed her left upper arm, over her clothes that covered up the large, colourful Phoenix tattoo with the clock that she had gotten soon after leaving Wentworth. It meant rebirth, time, healing, and freedom. It was bright, full of energy and life; a symbol of strength that could exist in the most fragile of creatures. Her bird meant so much to her, she wouldn’t let him take it away. 

How dare he, she thought in the heat of the moment. How dare he fucking touch her.

Franky threw him off as she spun back to face him. She dropped all of her green folders and white pages of reports spilled out of them. It happened so quickly, her mind was racing. She pointed her finger in Mike’s face and took offensive steps forward to get up under his nose. 

“Stay the fuck away from me!” she screamed. This was as angry as she got now, but she wanted to cry because she hadn’t needed to be like this in so fucking long. “Just fuck off!”

People on the street were watching as she stared him down. He looked directly into her eyes and again she saw nothing, she felt fucking nothing outta him! He turned and walked away.

Franky didn’t even know what happened in the moments that followed. A young woman, maybe only twenty, rushed up to her, crouched to the ground at Franky’s feet, and started helping to gather up all of her paperwork. Franky stared at her for half a second before she realised that this girl was helping her without having been asked, because she felt it was the right thing to do. Franky sucked in a breath and dropped to her knees to help her as well. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. She opened her satchel on the ground.

“No, don’t apologise, it’s okay,” the girl said. Her brown eyes met Franky’s and she raised her brow to ask, “Are you all right? I saw him come after you, I’ve seen him hanging around here before. Is he harassing you? Do you need the police?”

Fuck no, Franky thought. Her parole would be fucked in the space of three fucking days.

“No it’s fine,” she said. “I mean, I’m sure it’s fine. He’s just upset. I…I couldn’t help him.”

That much was true. Nothing Franky had said to Mike had helped him, nothing ever would.

“Thank you,” she said to the girl as she picked up the last of Franky’s papers and Franky shoved them into her satchel. She would get back upstairs to work and would attempt to put them back into some kind of functional order, hopefully without anyone noticing in horror.

“That’s okay,” the girl said. She held Franky’s eyes a second longer and asked, “You sure you’re all right? You look really rattled. I’m a student nurse, I can sit with you for a bit.”

“No, no it’s okay,” Franky assured her. She offered the girl a relieved smile and a deep breath. “Thank you, I mean it,” she said as sincerely as possible. She hoped this person believed her. She was helped to her feet like she was an old woman, and not a uni student herself part of the time. 

Franky said goodbye and walked to her car in a daze. She stood at the open car door in the lot and shrugged off her jacket. She threw it onto the front passenger seat before she realised it was the middle of the day and she was meant to still be at work, not going home. She tried to laugh at herself and she rolled her eyes but they just filled with tears. Okay, she was rattled.

By the time Franky got back to work with her bag but without her jacket she felt sick and breathless. She hadn’t had to defend herself like that in ten months, not even when Shane held a gun to her the day Ferguson was acquitted, before she’d killed Bea. That had been a big deal, sure, she’d never seen or held a gun in her life until then, but Shane was just a kid and this thing with Mike felt different. Franky had a really bad fucking feeling about it. It was happening so fast that her head was spinning and her stomach was in knots. She wanted to call Bridget and have a cry and find a way to fix this for them, but she actually thought she might faint or vomit first, so she took a moment at the top of the stairs to take a few deep breaths and gather herself. She was Franky Doyle, she had been Top Dog at Wentworth, she could handle this. She had defended herself against Mike before, and she could do it again. 

She just really fucking hoped she didn’t have to.

The minute her boss saw her, he told her off for failing to redact confidential information from a file. Three days earlier she had been on top of the world, she had been Mr Strathairn’s favourite person, and now she was fucking up at work too. This was so fucking bad for her. 

She didn’t even get a chance to sit down at her desk and fix it before her phone rang. It was a private number, it was him. Franky thought about not answering it because for fuck’s sake, she didn’t want it to be like this, but she did answer because he would only keep calling, or worse. He knew where she lived, he knew where Bridget lived too, obviously, and probably where Bridget worked as well; if Franky kept talking to him maybe he wouldn’t hurt her. 

“You think it’s that easy?” Mike asked when she answered without saying anything. “You think you can just ignore me and tell me to fuck off, Francesca?”

Franky walked to the nearest window to look out, to see if she could see him looking back. She couldn’t, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He had been hanging around, apparently.

“What do you want from me, Mike?” she hissed in an angry whisper. Fuck you, she thought.

“I want you to understand what you’ve done. I want you to understand what it’s like to be me.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Franky asked, genuinely stumped. Did he want to burn her face too, was that it? Ten months ago Franky almost died in a fire at Wentworth, she stopped breathing, Bea had saved her. Bea was dead now though; she wasn’t coming to help this time.

‘I’d hate for you to get burned, darling,’ Bridget had mumbled against her hand that morning.

Oh Gidget, I’m sorry, Franky thought as she listened to Mike’s firm reply, his raised voice.

“Just give me some of your attention.”

“We can’t have any contact,” Franky hissed. “I told you that, it’s a breach of my parole.”

“So is not living in your registered address. You could get in a lot of hot water for that, couldn’t you?” he asked.

That was a direct threat, she thought. That fucking asshole! She scrunched up her nose and resisted the sudden urge to punch the glass. She was two stories up and she could hurt people below if she smashed that window, but honestly she didn’t even think she could break it. She had stopped working out every day in the weight room, not being in prison and all that jazz. The only weightlifting she did now was holding up Bridget or holding herself above Bridget. 

“You’d go back to jail,” Mike said. “And your prisoner psych girlfriend she’d lose her job, maybe even her licence to practice.”

No, not Bridget, Franky thought as her eyes filled with fresh tears and her heart thudded in her chest. He could take her, he could burn her, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted as long as he didn’t hurt Bridget. Franky couldn’t bear it, neither of them would survive it. 

“Mike please, listen to me-”

“No you listen to me!” he stated. “You think I haven’t got a fuck-load more photographs of the two of you? Your little happy life is about to come crumbling down, Franky.”

Ah, finally, a fucking ‘Franky’! He had only ever called her ‘Francesca’ five years ago to piss her off; it was weird that he’d been calling her that like they all were happy it was her name.

Franky could barely breathe but she knew she had to be patient and calm and she had to reason with him. She had topped her class in alternate dispute resolution at uni and it was time to put those excellent communication skills her bosses spoke so highly of to good use. Like, right now, before Mike had any opportunity to ruin Bridget’s life just for loving her.

“Mike,” Franky said as gently as possible even as her voice shook with fear and frustration. “Mike?” No answer. She checked her phone’s home screen and realised he was gone. “Oh f-” 

Fuck. Franky couldn’t even say fuck because she was at fucking work and Mike could be anywhere and he was going to take everything away from her if she couldn’t reason with him. What if he did more than just report Bridget to her Board? What if he decided to show Franky what his life was like by burning Bridget instead? What if he seriously hurt her? He could kill her, he was probably that angry, and Franky never underestimated people like that. 

Hell, the last person she underestimated was Bea, until Bea took her down as Top Dog in a fight, used her to escape from Wentworth and custody in hospital, all to kill Brayden Holt. Bea always said she would kill him, and not even a maximum security prison had stopped her, so what the fuck was Mike capable of when he said things like he wanted Franky to pay?

She had to find him. She knew what she was about to do was highly unethical, but fuck it, she already had a criminal record. Even when she passed her law degree she was still going to have to fucking beg the Supreme Court to admit her as a Solicitor, and they still probably wouldn’t do it because of who she was and where she came from, so what was one more transgression, right? What if it saved her life, or Bridget’s life? Fuck it, Franky had to fix this.

She logged into the case database on her computer and searched Mike’s name. She knew his details would be there, because Franky had used legal aid lawyers for her defence once too.


	6. Bridget

Franky wasn’t asleep. Bridget could feel her moving around in bed directly in front of her, but she remained still with her eyes shut. Bridget had only just stirred and if she stayed still and relaxed she would drift back to sleep, and hopefully so would Franky. One of Bridget’s hands was beneath her chin on her pillow, helping to support her face, and the other was pressed into Franky’s pillow in front of her. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out, as she felt her eyes roll back and grow heavy behind her eyelids again. She could feel Franky’s restless energy, she knew that Franky was wide awake without having to open her eyes and see for herself, but it was the middle of the night and Bridget was exhausted. 

Ferguson had gone berserk in the yard not two days earlier; she was now back in General after snapping another inmate’s arm clean in half and after lifting Allie off the ground by the throat. The women were all distressed, still grieving and angry, Allie was devastated and was still weak herself; Bridget was deeply concerned that she wasn’t coping. Ferguson was walking around like she owned the place and Vera was under pressure from the Prison Board to explain what the fuck was going on inside Wentworth. It took all of Bridget’s energy just to be there to listen to it all. She was glad Vera had brought in a psychiatrist to deal with Joan because Bridget refused to have anything to do with her, but she still needed to sleep. She needed to let all of this shit go so that she could rest, and dream of lazy days off with Franky.

She nearly got there, too. Bridget was perhaps a minute from succumbing to a deep sleep when Franky raked in a loud breath so desperate it was as though she suddenly couldn’t breathe, without any warning at all. Before Bridget could even sit up in bed and get her eyes to work in the dark or her voice to make a sound, Franky had fallen or tripped out of the bed and was on the floor. She was gasping and wheezing on the other side of the bed and she sounded like she couldn’t breathe; that was all Bridget knew or cared about in that moment. 

Bridget turned her back on Franky only to switch on the lamp on her own side of the bed. It was the furthest light from Franky, it would be enough light for Bridget to work out if they needed an ambulance but it wouldn’t be in her face. Bridget then climbed over the bed and knelt in front of Franky on the ground. Franky was on her knees but had lowered down into child’s pose with her head and elbows on the floor, and had reached up to lace her fingers over the back of her head. Her breaths were deep and strained, and the speed at which she was trying to breathe was a key indication that she simply wasn’t getting enough air in. 

Franky was not an asthmatic, and Bridget had seen this before.

“Franky,” she said in a calm, serious voice. “It’s Bridget. Do you know where you are?”

Franky didn’t answer. Bridget’s eyes keenly assessed the rise and fall of Franky’s back and the sound of her breathing, but she did not dare touch Franky without some sign that Franky knew that she was safe. God only knew where Franky was in that moment, and Bridget felt her own breath catch in her throat when she realised how small and vulnerable Franky suddenly appeared. She was taller than Bridget, bustier, but there really wasn’t much to her. 

“Franky, it’s Bridget,” she tried again. “Can you sit up for me, sweetheart? You need to focus on your breathing, okay? Listen to my voice. I want you to breathe in, breathe in...now breathe out, let everything out. Breathe in, keep breathing in...and out. You’re all right, breathe out.” She let out a breath herself when she saw Franky comply, though she didn’t know whether Franky was consciously aware of what she was doing or not. “Breathe in, keep breathing in,” Bridget said as she moved her hands closer to Franky’s neck. “Breathe out, I’m just going to check your pulse, you’re okay, breathe out for me sweetheart, nice and slow.”

Bridget could hear the change in Franky’s breathing after just a few breaths, the desperate wheezing noise faded, and Bridget shut her eyes against an onslaught of exhausted, relieved tears when she felt the strong, rapid thrumming of Franky’s pulse at either side of her neck.

Bridget shuffled around to sit beside her hunched figure rather than in front of her, and she laid a hand on Franky’s back. She rubbed large, slow circles on her back, at first over the top of Franky’s t-shirt but she soon slid her hand underneath it; skin-to-skin contact was best.

Bridget knew she would sit with her in the dim light of their rented bedroom, on the old, grey carpet, until Franky’s heart-rate slowed down and her breathing returned to normal. Bridget shut her eyes as she rubbed Franky’s back and waited. It didn’t matter how long it took.

Seconds later, or maybe minutes, Bridget opened her eyes when she felt Franky’s back shaking. Franky dropped her hands from the back of her head and began to cry. She cried a soft peeling whine at first, as her back-line defences gave way and she felt the full force of her residual panic and whatever thoughts or feelings had contributed to it this time. 

Bridget had no idea how long Franky had been lying awake in bed trying to slow her own heart-rate before it sped up on her and stole her breath, but it was clear she had nothing left in the tank with which to fight it. Bridget continued to rub Franky’s back, but changed direction, and shuffled in a few inches closer to also reach for Franky’s nearest hand, which had collapsed in front of her buried head on the carpet. Bridget wrapped Franky’s fingers up in her warm palm and used her thumb to rub back and forth across the top of Franky’s hand.

Instead of that calming her down as Bridget intended, Franky began to weep in earnest and turned her head into her right arm, away from Bridget; she was exposed and embarrassed.

“It’s all right,” Bridget whispered. “All right, Franky. You’re all right, beautiful. I’m here.” 

“I’m sorry,” Franky sobbed. Bridget’s heart ached as she watched Franky press her wet, open mouth into the old tattoo of the naked woman in the clouds on her right upper arm. Her face was also still half-pressed into the carpet and it did not take long before she started to cough and wheeze again; they hadn’t vacuumed in a while, it was dusty, grubby carpet, and Franky wasn’t calm yet. Her panic attacks had a nasty habit of resurfacing if she didn’t calm down completely, and not for the first time Bridget regretted selling her old home, their first home. 

She’d had a bathtub in the main bathroom of that house, and a shower big enough for both of them in the ensuite; she would have run a warm bath for Franky if she could. She couldn’t even hold Franky up in the shower now, not in the shitty little shower in the only bathroom in the house, with its old tri-panel sliding glass door that was constantly coming of its runners.

“Breathe in, babe,” she whispered, as Franky started to choke on each deep breath again.

We’ll have a proper home again soon, Bridget promised in silence. She squeezed Franky’s hand and returned to rubbing circles on Franky’s bare back in the direction she had initially.

Franky calmed down faster this time, in time with Bridget’s softer, whispered instructions. This was no longer so urgent, and they had lots of time, and they were both safe and alive.

Bridget was ecstatic when Franky groaned and stretched her back. That was the worst of it over. Franky only realised she had worked herself into an impossibly uncomfortable position when the panic had truly left her to rest and recover. Sometimes she wedged herself between the bed and the bedside table, sometimes between the toilet and the bathroom wall, and sometimes it didn’t matter where she was as long as she could curl up in a ball with her head on the floor. It was distressing to see it but it usually only happened in the middle of the night these days, and Bridget would rather be there with her than not be there at all. She made sure Franky knew that as she continued to rub her back and hold and caress her hand. 

“I feel sick,” Franky said as she groaned and finally pushed herself up on all fours. Bridget let go of her hand to let her figure this next part out for herself. Her own hand stilled and came to rest on Franky’s nearest hip. Franky kept her head hanging low as she took some more breaths, but she was used to this, it wasn’t new. This was what Wentworth had left her with, but it was manageable and she was getting better. When she felt consciously strong enough she sat back on her heels and dropped her hands into her lap. She took several more breaths. 

“Do you need to throw up?” Bridget asked. It was usually fifty-fifty, and Bridget was only ever truly scared when Franky was throwing up during the peak of a panic attack, when she could accidentally choke on her own vomit or black out from an inability to properly inhale. Bridget did admit to having whacked Franky on the back a fair few times to pressure her to not fight it, to lean into that bowl and cough everything up. It was a fucking pleasure, truly.

“No, no I think I’m okay,” Franky said. She ran her hands over her face and back through her hair. Sweat lined her upper lip and Bridget could see a drop on its way down her cheek, or maybe that was a tear. Franky’s olive skin was patchy and flushed, her lips were shivering. 

Bridget scrambled to her feet, took Franky by the shoulders, and eased her up and back into the much warmer bed. They did not have to go far. Franky sat on the mattress as Bridget arranged their pillows against the headboard, so that she could pull Franky into her chest and lean them back, partially upright. Franky would fall asleep against her now, she always did. 

But first, Bridget wanted to see if she could get her to talk. 

“What just happened, hey?” she asked in a soothing, gently curious tone, as Franky put her head on Bridget’s breast and curled up against her. She was sweaty and shaking a bit, but her breathing was deep and clear, and Bridget felt calmer because of it. “Bad dream?” she asked. 

Bridget was only fishing; she knew Franky hadn’t actually been asleep. 

“Narr,” Franky mumbled. “I just couldn’t relax tonight, Gidge, and it’s so late. I’m sorry.”

“Did anything specific happen today?” Bridget asked. Franky had been quiet all evening. During dinner she had stared off into space and Bridget had allowed her just to eat slowly, quietly, without being pressured into talking. Bridget could tell she had a lot on her mind, and she might not have been Franky’s psychologist anymore but she certainly knew how best to handle this woman. The week had started incredibly well for her, but something wasn’t right. 

“No,” Franky said. She pressed a kiss to Bridget’s sternum as Bridget wrapped an arm around Franky’s head and stroked her hair. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired, I’m really tired.”

“You’re not sleeping well,” Bridget stated. 

“No,” Franky agreed in a voice so gentle that Bridget sighed and her heart ached. She wished she could fix this, she wished that Franky hadn’t had the experiences she’d had in her childhood and at Wentworth, she wished that Bea hadn’t been killed, and she wished Franky could find peace in sleep every night, not just when it suited her fickle subconsciousness. 

“I love you,” Bridget whispered. 

“I love you too,” Franky mumbled. “I just wanna be free, Gidge.”

“You are, baby,” Bridget said. Her heart briefly sped up and she wondered if Franky noticed. “Two months. Less, even. It’s going to go quickly, time will fly, and then we’ll both be free.”

“And we can get out of this shithole?” Franky asked. 

Bridget snorted and nodded vigorously, humorously, as Franky lifted her head to offer Bridget a grin. Bridget loved that smile. It told her that her Franky was all right, still there.

“Not that we’re in this place because of your parole,” Bridget pointed out. “I’m not trying to hide you away in a less charming abode so as not to draw attention to you, darling.”

Franky rolled her eyes, shook her head, and lay it down once more against Bridget’s chest. 

“I draw enough attention to myself anyway,” she mumbled. They shuffled around to get comfortable together, still reclined against their pillows and the headboard. As soon as Franky fell asleep Bridget would wriggle them down and ease Franky’s head onto her own pillow so they could sleep apart like normal, but Franky needed this time and contact, and frankly when Bridget got dragged up half-asleep to deal with all this shit she needed it too. 

Bridget kissed the top of Franky’s head as Franky took a deep, deliberate breath and exhaled.

“Go to sleep, my beautiful, strong, Franky Doyle.”

“So possessive,” Franky whispered on another deep breath. This had happened enough times over the past ten months that Bridget knew that Franky would fall quickly to sleep. Finally. 

“You bet your cute ass I am,” Bridget promised, as her gentle hands and the relaxed beating of her heart continued to calm Franky. Bridget watched her fall asleep as she thought. Franky was the fucking love her life, and there was still a part of Bridget that just couldn’t believe it. 

*

Bridget was looking at real estate online the next day when her phone rang. She was in her office at Wentworth, at her desk, and she reached for the phone blindly. Her lips were pursed in thought and her blue eyes were fixed to the photographs of the house she was looking at on the computer. This house was similar to her old place; white weatherboard charm with a rustic looking deck and spacious, modern interiors that she and Franky could decorate. It was something they could take ownership of together. It was also in a better area to where she was currently renting, which was why the guide price to auction was so fucking expensive-

“Bridget Westfall,” she answered when she saw it was a private number calling. 

“Gidge, it’s me,” Franky said. 

Bridget smiled and assumed Franky was calling from her own desk at her own office. 

“Baby, I have found us a house, I think,” she began. “Financially it would be a stretch but we should go and see it on the weekend.”

“I dunno, Gidge,” Franky mumbled. 

“I’ve decided we need to get out of this rental before we both go insane,” Bridget declared with wide, expressive eyes that Franky could not see but that Bridget wished she could. “It was only meant to be temporary; try a new area, look for something together? Let’s do it.”

“Oh Gidge,” Franky said on a heavy sigh. “We gotta talk first.”

Bridget hesitated when she heard Franky’s voice crack. 

“What about, darling?” Bridget asked. 

Franky exhaled a sharp, very deliberate breath and Bridget could picture her cheeks puffing out and her bright green eyes full of maybe worry or tears or sadness? What was going on?

“Franky?” she asked. She naturally lowered her voice to speak Franky’s name aloud at work, even in the confines of her office. 

“Are you sitting down, babe?” Franky asked. She half-laughed but there was a dry, sardonic edge to that laugh. By that time, Bridget knew whatever Franky had to say, it wasn’t funny. Franky was audibly struggling and after a beat, hissed a frustrated, “Fuck!” over the phone.

“Franky-”

“I’ve been arrested,” Franky said, cutting her off. “I got arrested, Gidge. I’m with the cops.”

“What?” Bridget asked. She gasped, her mind raced. This had to be because of Mike and the café. That stupid, arrogant little prick reported her! He might have done it all deliberately too, setting Franky up to breach her parole by running into her, by appealing to her to talk. Shit!

“I love you, Bridget,” Franky said. Bridget could hear the emotion in Franky’s voice, a mixture of sincerity and frustration and fear at what lay ahead. “And I promise ya, I swear to you, Bridget, I swear on this kite around my fucking neck, I didn’t do what they’re saying.”

“What are they saying you’ve done?” Bridget asked. 

Franky told her, and it was Bridget’s turn to feel as though she couldn’t breathe. Murder.


	7. Franky

The weight of Wentworth was bearing down on Franky as the prison van came to a slow stop. Unlike the other women in the van, who were just angry chicks and scared junkies, Franky knew exactly where she was and who and what was waiting for her on the other side. Fuck. 

When the doors opened, Franky didn’t want to look down. She didn’t want to look anywhere. She never thought she would have to do this again. Franky was not one of those parolees who got out of jail and got so fucked up on the high of all that freedom that they threw it all away. No, Franky had committed her parole conditions to memory and she had abided by them like some kind of dedicated schoolgirl. She scheduled meetings with her parole officer, Jim never had to chase her. All her reporting requirements were met on time or well in advance of being due. She had gotten a good job, she was paying bills, she didn’t hang out with her old mates who could get her into trouble. There were no old mates to hang out with, frankly; Franky never had proper friends before Wentworth, but she had them now and that meant something.

Bridget had helped, of course she had. Bridget had become her best friend, and she had been a kind of yardstick against which Franky measured all of her decisions and accomplishments. Bridget never let her get away with any bullshit even at the same time as she was kind and patient. Fuck, Franky had never met anyone so fucking patient. Bridget had showed Franky what it was like to live in a proper home with someone. She started talking about herself and working at Wentworth more, and she cried more than Franky had thought she would, which was great because it meant it was okay for Franky to cry a bit as well; she would not be hurt.

Bridget had helped Franky to feel safe in open spaces too, and comfortable in a world that she had always felt – no, that she had always been told by her evil mother – would never accept her. Bridget showed her that it did, unconditionally. She allowed Franky to be herself and to figure things out on her own, she trusted Franky to make good decisions, but she was always there when Franky needed her. She had seen Franky at the worst times and she was still there. 

Bridget would be there inside Wentworth too, again, but for how long? It was different now.

Franky was the first woman out of the prison transport van, and she had already decided that she was going to walk back into Wentworth with her head held high. Anything less than that was an invitation to be bashed or ganged, or whipped under the wing of an inmate like a bitch, quick-smart. The only problem with holding her head high was that she had to look into the eyes of the guards who were there to supervise her return. 

Smiles was holding the door open. It was weird, Franky had gotten used to thinking about her as Linda, because that was what Bridget called her. That was her name, after all, Linda Miles. She was called Smiles by the inmates because she never smiled unless she’d won on the dogs or horses and they liked to give her shit for it, and Franky was going to have to remember that and not slip up. Imagine if she said, ‘Thank you, Linda’, to her one day? Fuck, she’d be dead. 

Smiles was smirking at her and could barely contain her glee at seeing ex-Top-Dog Franky Doyle stepping out of that van. It was the, ‘I knew the cocky bitch wouldn’t make it’, look.

That’s not me, Franky wanted to say. She wanted to look into Smiles’ eyes and they could talk to each other like normal women, and Franky could laugh at how fucking ridiculous this all was and say, ‘But that’s not me, yeah?’ Then Smiles could laugh and agree, ‘Yeah, nah.’

Never gonna happen, Franky thought. No fucking point. 

The guard waiting at the gate was Will Jackson. Will was different to Smiles, because Franky had gotten to know him in the real world. They had kept in touch. They shared an unusual bond, given that Franky had accidentally killed his wife in a riot four years earlier, and he knew about it. She had apologised and he had truly, miraculously forgiven her. She had been so terrified to apologise to him, but Will had seen something in Franky, and he knew she was clever and better than Wentworth. Maybe he thought that about a lot of the women, but importantly he thought that about her. He talked to Franky like a real person, he was kind. At Bea’s gravesite they had spoken a bit like awkward friends, and she supposed they were.

They had been, she corrected. Being friendly with the screws was a bad idea unless she was going to get something pretty fucking decent in return, and all she saw in Will’s eyes was a sad kind of disbelieving disappointment in her. She could try to tell him, ‘I’m not a killer’, but he already knew that she was. So did Bridget. 

Franky thought about her last conversation with Bridget as she was led into the prison and had her photographs taken, the unofficial mugshots in front of Wentworth’s blue-green bricks. She hadn’t wanted to call Bridget while she was at work, that never seemed fair, but Franky had been arrested during the day and desperate to hear her girlfriend’s gorgeous voice. Franky hadn’t called for a lawyer, she’d called her innocent partner to blindside her.

‘What?’ Bridget had asked when Franky had told her that the cops thought she killed Mike. ‘He’s dead?’

‘I dunno, apparently?’ Franky replied. She bit her bottom lip and waited for Bridget to say something. She didn’t say anything for so long that Franky’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Gidget-’

‘No, it’s okay, don’t say any more,’ Bridget then rushed out in a quiet voice.

Franky had then recalled that Bridget had said something similar to her once before, in her office in Wentworth, the first time Franky ever confessed to killing Meg Jackson in the riot. 

‘I don’t believe you, you’re not a killer,’ Bridget had been telling her. 

‘Yes I am!’ Franky had insisted. She had screamed it. She had been desperate to get this off her chest and she really thought she could trust Bridget. Franky even thought she loved her.

‘Yeah well who have you killed?’ Bridget had asked, throwing down the challenge. 

‘I fucking killed Meg Jackson!’ Franky had sobbed. She hadn’t even paused to think about the consequences. ‘It was an accident, but I did it.’ She had tried to explain while clutching at her stomach, which was where the guilt had been slowly chewing away at her for years. 

‘All right don’t say any more,’ Bridget had said quietly, quickly. ‘If you go into detail I’ll have to report it.’ She had looked stunned, but also calm and thoughtful. She didn’t hate her.

Please don’t hate me, Franky thought as she recalled that moment again, and the much more recent moment that still caused Franky’s heart to ache. Bridget had been on the phone with her, and after telling Franky not to talk, nearly word-for-fucking-word how she had said it in the past, there was only silence again, until Bridget whispered a frustrated, fearful, ‘Shit’. 

Franky found that too difficult to listen to. She hadn’t wanted Bridget to start crying at work and have to explain why, just when Franky was on her way back in, and yet Franky knew that tears were a very real possibility. She had heard them gathering in the timbre of Bridget’s voice and in the silences between them when she couldn’t speak. Franky’s tears had been ready to fall too, but she made the decision to hold them back. She did still have that kind of control, when she turned it on. From now on no one could see her cry, no one but Bridget. 

‘I wanted you to hear it from me,’ Franky said in the firmest, most confident voice she could manage. ‘I’ll be okay, I’m sure we can sort it all out. I just wanted you to hear it from me.’

Franky had already imagined a worse alternative; one of the screws sauntering into Bridget’s office with a big, snarky grin on their smug-ass face, saying shit like, ‘Guess who’s coming back? This’ll be interesting. Franky-fucking-Doyle. I knew it, I knew the bitch wouldn’t last.’

That would have devastated Bridget, and Franky would never have let it happen like that. 

‘I also wanted to tell ya,’ she said to Bridget before she hung up. ‘That I love ya. Dunno if I’ll get another chance.’

Bridget had raked in a choked, weeping sort of breath, but to her credit her voice was strong and reassuring. 

‘Don’t worry, you will,’ she said. ‘I believe you, stay strong. And darling, I love you too.’

Fuck, Franky knew that. Bridget had been trying to find a new home for them when Franky called, and Bridget could go on about rates bills and neighbourhoods all she liked; that wasn’t the real reason she sold the old house. She had given herself away multiple times already, but Franky never called her on it. Hell, Bridget had given herself away again as soon as she answered the phone and started talking about going to open homes, ‘together’, like a real couple, to buy a house, ‘together’. Bridget wanted Franky’s name on a title deed next to hers. 

It was about making it legal, about having their relationship recognised, about being a family.

Franky didn’t know how to feel about that now that it had all been taken away from them, and she had no fucking idea what she could possibly say to Bridget, who was now so alone.

So Franky focussed on the one thing she did know how to do; she had a strip-search coming up, after all. She hid the silver necklace with red string that Bridget gave her for her birthday.

The search was slow and degrading, and as she bent over to part her cheeks it occurred to Franky that no one other than Bridget had seen her naked body in ten months. She was searched to visit Bea, but not like this, and this wasn’t loving or safe like Franky now knew it could be, at home with Bridget. Now everyone could take a long, hard look at her bits every day in the showers, and they could try to touch her if they wanted, or dared. She was going to have to start working out again to muscle-up her skinny arms, but at least her kite was safe.

*

Franky didn’t want to talk to Will, but she knew she would have to. He was doing admissions that day. Franky realised she was going to have to start calling him Mr J or Mr Jackson again and she hated that idea, but she didn’t want the women to think that she thought she was above them, just because she’d been out and made something of herself before fucking up. Besides, she would rather it was Will she spoke to than any of the other screws. She didn’t want to talk to the others. At least she could look into Will’s eyes and try to talk to him, and he did listen. He knew how fucked this was; her knew her and she wasn’t that kind of killer.

Will was in the middle of filling out the paperwork to assign her to her cell – a fucking cell, for fuck’s sake she was going back into a fucking cell, this was fucking bullshit! – and Franky sat quietly, calmly, and tried to think. She remembered all of the last day, from the time she was arrested to where she found herself now – in Hell – to remind herself that she had done everything possible to help herself, and sooner or later the cops would know that.

Franky had not resisted arrest. She had tried to smile and look the cops in the eyes. She had tried to convey her genuine surprise that the arrogant prick was dead. She had taken a deep breath and when she was given the opportunity, had said very clearly that, ‘No, I didn’t kill him. I thought he was going to kill me, but I didn’t kill him’. They had asked her to explain, and she had. She had patiently admitted to bumping into him at the café, she had told them that even though she knew it was a breach of her parole, she worked as part of a restorative justice team at Legal Relief, and she thought this might help to bring them both closure. 

She could tell that the cops didn’t believe her, but they did seem interested enough to encourage her to keep going. Franky had then told them about the phone call the next day, and the photographs that she burned, and the incident on the street where he had sneered at her and grabbed her, and the phone call after that when he said he wanted her to know what it felt like to be him. She admitted to looking up his address and going to his house, she explained that she had rung the doorbell and called out, and that when she got back to her car he had attacked her. She had recounted that attack in excruciatingly accurate detail. 

She hadn’t even told Bridget any of that. She had nearly passed out from a panic attack, but even after Bridget had helped her and as she held her, when Bridget asked her if anything important had happened that day, Franky had simply said, ‘No’. She was a fucking coward.

‘He followed me back to my car, I didn’t see him,’ Franky had told the cops. ‘He put his hands around my throat as he knelt on the front passenger seat until I couldn’t breathe. He used the seatbelt to make a noose but that didn’t work so he let it go. He had a small blow torch, for cooking, he turned it on and I screamed. I grabbed the hand he was holding the torch in and he was leaning across me in the front of the car, and I held my arms out and kept it away from me. He was trying to burn me. When I thought I could hold him away with one hand, I elbowed him in the chest, twice, hard. Once I caught him off guard I dragged the arm in front of me across and out my own open window, and cracked his wrist over the side of it.’

‘You assaulted him?’ one of the cops asked. 

‘Yeah but it was self defence. He was trying to use that blow torch to burn my face, like I burned his, y’know? An eye for an eye? He dropped the torch on the bitumen somewhere, and I let his arm go and he recoiled, right, trying to get his balance…I grabbed his head with both my hands and slammed it onto the bottom of the steering wheel. I pushed him, I kicked him out of the car so hard he fell onto his back on the road, and I was so panicked that I drove off with the door still open and everything. It um, it closed, from the speed or whatever.’

Franky knew she should have told Bridget all of this, she had desperately wanted to talk as Bridget had hugged her, but she had been in shock, she thought. She tried to tell the cops that, as they pointed out the bloody obvious; she hadn’t called triple zero or reported the assault. 

‘I thought I’d get done for breach of parole and that’s all that would matter to ya,’ Franky told them in earnest. ‘I’m really sorry, and when I left he was fine. I saw him get up as I drove off. He chased after me and smashed his hands onto the boot of my car – can you check it for his fingerprints, please? – and I watched him in the mirror. He bent over and screamed, ‘fuck!’ for everyone to hear. It was the last I saw of him, I haven’t seen him since, I swear.’

She knew she probably shouldn’t have finished her statement like that, because that was what everyone said, right? I swear I didn’t do it, I swear it! What else was she meant to say, though? Franky had been sincere and calm. She had told the truth and she just hoped that it counted for something. Couldn’t they see how great she was doing? Why would she risk that?

Why indeed. She berated herself when she realised that she had risked it. It was done.

Franky looked up when her heart jolted and she felt Bridget watching her through the glass window. She knew it was Bridget before she saw her, or at the very least Franky desperately wanted it to be her and she expected it to be her. They hadn’t seen each other since both leaving for work over twenty-four hours ago, when they shared a hug, a quick kiss, that was all. Franky knew Bridget would try to find her as soon as she heard that the van had arrived. 

And she had. Franky looked at Bridget with an open but serious expression on her face, as though to say, ‘here I am’. She hated thinking about what Bridget must have gone through overnight, at home without her; the calls she might have made to Franky’s parole officer and her dad, all the wine she must have drunk before climbing into their bed on her own, knowing she would have to wait until the morning to see Franky, and that would happen at Wentworth.

She looked okay though. Oh screw it, she looked fucking gorgeous, Franky thought. Bridget looked into her eyes as well, part perplexed, part devastated, a bit relieved; if any person could manage to be all of those things at once it was Bridget. Franky’s eyes widened as she grimaced. ‘Yep, it’s true, I’m here.’ Franky tried to communicate to her again, but she saw Bridget’s eyes shift upwards and past her, and she heard the gate in the hallway behind her open, and before anything else could be said with their eyes alone, Vera – Governor Bennett – came striding around the corner on her short little legs to move Bridget away from her.

Fuck. Vera had never approved of Franky or the relationship. Besides Will – who Franky had confided in, because he wasn’t stupid and he’d heard all the old rumours and she trusted him – Vera was the only other Wentworth screw who knew about Franky and Bridget. She had also fired Bridget over mere rumours about a relationship before. Now she knew it was real, and she was the Governor, and now that Franky was back inside and Vera couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist anymore, would Vera fire Bridget again? Would she give them any warning? 

Please don’t fire her, Franky thought. Her guts ached that Bridget couldn’t see her anymore. Couldn’t Vera see that Franky needed her too? She loved Bridget, they needed to be in each other’s lives. Franky just wasn’t sure for how much longer they even could be.


	8. Bridget

Bridget had been sitting in her office all morning trying to keep busy but failing miserably. She didn’t want to see any other women anyway, and had rescheduled all of her morning appointments, to wait instead for the prison transfer van to arrive. Franky would be inside it and Bridget wanted to see her as soon as she was through the first fucking door, no excuses!

It had been a long, lonely, sleepless night without her. After they ended their phone call the previous day, Bridget had forced herself to stay at Wentworth and pretend as though she didn’t know. At that point, no one else at the prison knew that Franky had been arrested, and Bridget had still held on to a sliver of hope that by the time five o’clock rolled around and she went home, Franky would have been released. The cops would have come to their senses by then, found out who really killed Mike Pennisi, and dropped the charges. Well, they hadn’t. 

Bridget had been home by six o’clock and the house was empty. Franky’s car wasn’t even there because of course it was still in the parking lot by the Legal Relief offices. Bridget had a spare set of car keys, but it was a job she knew she could put off for a little while. First, she had wanted to watch the news. She had committed it to memory, and standing in her living room in bare feet it had not taken long for Bridget to realise that Franky wasn’t coming home. 

‘Celebrity chef and reality TV personality Mike Pennisi was found dead in his home earlier today,’ the reporter said. ‘Pennisi owned a string of successful restaurants in his youth before venturing into television. Five years ago he suffered serious burns to his face while hosting a reality cooking show, after a contestant was angered by his comments and threw a pan of boiling oil over him. The incident was captured on film and was rushed to air by the network amid a storm of controversy. The angry contestant responsible for the attack, Francesca Doyle, pled guilty to serious assault and was sentenced to a maximum five years in prison. Pennisi himself retired from television after reaching a compensation agreement with the network. Police were called to Pennisi’s residence today after gunshots were reported, where they found him deceased. Police have since made an arrest in connection with the shooting.’

The news had not named Franky as the person arrested, but the report itself had certainly implied as much, and of course by morning those details had been available to the media. Bridget had not turned on the television to see the morning news, she had avoided newspapers and the Internet, but when she arrived for work it was clear that all the screws knew, Linda and Will, and Vera had known by the time Bridget arrived for work as well. 

‘Are you okay?’ Vera had asked after following Bridget into her office, almost as though she had been waiting for her to arrive. 

‘What do you think?’ Bridget had replied, as she collapsed into the chair behind her desk and covered her face with her hands. She took a breath, smoothed her hair behind her ears, and had tearfully grimaced in the direction of her friend, the Governor. She had looked straight into Vera’s sturdy but nonetheless concerned grey-blue eyes and had shaken her head. ‘No.’

No, she was not okay. She wouldn’t be okay again until she could hold Franky in her arms. What if that never happened? Fresh tears had filled her eyes on that thought alone, and she had needed to get Vera out of that office, quickly, so that she could try to cope with this. 

‘Can you please go?’ she asked. ‘We’ll talk later. I just need to…gather myself and prepare.’

‘Okay,’ Vera said. ‘Do you want me to let you know if…’ She trailed off, but the question was clear. Did she want Bridget to let her know if she found out that Franky was being transferred back to Wentworth that day?

Bridget had nodded and had managed a deep, steadying breath. She couldn’t cry, not at work.

‘Yes please, Vera,’ she had said, though she also couldn’t meet her friend’s told-you-so eyes.

Vera didn’t like Franky much. Franky was the reason the inmates called her Vinegar Tits, and Franky had made Vera’s life as Deputy Governor a living Hell, just for kicks, for a laugh, because Franky had been bored and restless and Top Dog. It had taken time for Vera to come to see the Franky who had walked out of Wentworth on parole as a different woman to the Franky who had screamed, ‘fuck you!’ into her face, literally and figuratively, many times. 

Bridget had tried to help explain this apparently split personality many times as well. She had said as much as she felt comfortable disclosing and it had all been common sense, and the truth. The way that Franky had protected herself at Wentworth was by being fierce. It was how she had protected herself for her entire life. She used her anger as a shield, and as Top Dog she had certain expectations placed upon her. People needed to see her giving the screws a hard time, at the same time as trying to get the best possible deals done for the women. 

On top of that, Bridget had disclosed Franky’s intellect, though she hadn’t needed to; Vera knew how smart this younger woman was, it was only the loving bit she didn’t understand. Franky’s softness. Her empathy. The way she could look straight into Bridget’s eyes and touch her heart with a smile. The way she touched her, full stop. All Franky had ever really wanted was to be loved, but she never believed she deserved it. She also had so much love that she could give, and Bridget would never throw it back in her face like her parents had. 

Vera had left her alone, but not for long. Vera may not have been one of Franky’s greatest cheerleaders, but she had witnessed Franky’s transformation over her last year at Wentworth; from a serial trouble-maker with a bad attitude to a reliable kitchen manager, a dedicated student, a humble person. She had met and spoken with Franky on several occasions over the past ten months, most recently at Bea’s funeral and at the cemetery. Franky always treated Vera with respect and kindness, and she had sincerely apologised to her too. That probably surprised Vera. There was no doubt Vera was still conflicted, particularly given these new developments, but Vera at least respected Bridget enough to have considered Bridget’s words and her feelings. Ultimately, Vera knew how much Franky meant to Bridget, so she did call.

‘Doyle’s in admissions,’ were the only three words Vera said in that phone call. Bridget ran.

She found Franky in the admissions office with Will Jackson. She wasn’t talking, she was just staring at her hands, but when Bridget stopped on the other side of the long, glass window it was as though Franky could feel her. She looked up after only a second, and she looked directly into Bridget’s eyes as though she had been expecting Bridget to be there. 

Bridget couldn’t believe that this was real. There was Franky, inside Wentworth, sitting there staring at her like she also knew how unbelievable this was. This wasn’t her, this wasn’t where she was meant to be. What the fuck had happened? What had happened with the cops? Was she all right? Bridget tried to ask the questions with her eyes but Franky never got the chance to communicate much in return, because their attention was quickly diverted by Vera passing through the gate on the other side of the office. Vera had called Bridget, then gone there looking for her. Before Bridget could even consider risking a mouthed, ‘love you’, to Franky, Vera took hold of her and firmly walked her away, back in the direction of her office. 

That pissed Bridget off. Vera had offered to call her about Franky, and now that she had, what, Bridget just wasn’t allowed to see her? Come on! She had to make Vera understand.

“Franky couldn’t have killed Mike Pennisi, you know her,” she hissed as they walked the hall. At the very least, Vera knew Franky better than she had before, Bridget was certain of it.

“It is hard to believe,” Vera admitted after a brief pause. She seemed to sincerely agree. 

“She just saw him once at a café, that was it, it wasn’t a threat-”

“Well either way, you need to keep your distance, for your own sake.” 

They approached the locked door that needed swipe card access, and Vera took the lead. 

“She’d be feeling frightened and isolated,” Bridget said in an urgent whisper. “Vera, I’ve got to-”

“Bridget,” Vera stated once she had swiped her card. She put her hand on the door and pulled it open as they hurriedly hissed over the top of one another and stepped over the threshold. 

“-she needs me,” Bridget insisted.

“Bridget!”

On the other side of the secure door, they continued walking quickly together.

“There are already rumours circulating about your relationship,” Vera explained. “You know the department policy about staff getting involved with-”

Bridget cut her off before she could use the word ‘inmates’. Franky wasn’t an inmate to her, not now. She didn’t give a flying fuck about the rumours, and she didn’t even think they were still current. The women had moved on, no one cared, and fuck it, Bridget would hand in her registration that day if it meant she could have regular contact with her fantastic partner. She needed to be a part of Franky’s life inside prison, she needed to help keep her grounded, to stop her being sucked back into all the bullshit power plays that Bridget knew of all too well.

“I know I’m compromised but I will not abandon her,” she said with certainty. Her voice cracked but she didn’t care. There was so much she wanted to tell Franky, they had so much still to do. Bridget stopped walking and Vera turned to face her. 

“I understand,” Vera said in a quiet, firm voice. “But if anyone sees you-” She stopped when she thought a guard would pass them, but they didn’t. It was enough to remind Bridget where she was, and how bad this could be for Franky, in particular. Bridget dropped her head and lowered her gaze. She felt sick, and sad, and Bridget knew she also looked as desperate as she sounded. “You’re a friend,” Vera said more gently. Bridget looked up. “You do great work with the women, I’d hate to have to sack you. As your friend, be very, very careful, please.”

Thank you, Bridget thought, but she whispered, “Yes Governor”. This was business now.

“We didn’t have this conversation,” Vera said before leaving. Bridget took a breath to try to process and to calm herself before she watched Vera retreat. It was a strange thing, a lot of conversations never happened at Wentworth, and that was partly what Bridget was afraid of. 

Still, she had seen Franky now and Franky was all right. She looked well, actually, compared to a lot of the women who came through admissions in various states of disrepair and mental anguish. Franky looked calm, patient, she had brushed her hair and she just looked beautiful.

Good, Bridget thought. Those were all good things that she could pass on to her father, who had met Bridget at her house the previous night with Franky’s little sister Tessa in tow. They had put the booster seat for Tessa into Bridget’s car, they had all driven to pick up Franky’s car, and Bridget had driven Tessa back to her place while Allan had followed with Franky’s. 

Afterwards, Tessa had fallen asleep on the couch beside Bridget as she and Allan had a drink.

He had seen the news as well, but Bridget had called him earlier. Just as Franky had given Bridget a heads-up, Bridget had felt she owed it to Allan, and she had wanted Franky’s car home. They told Tessa that Franky had to work late, and Bridget had combed her long, brown hair with gentle fingers as she told Allan everything she knew, which wasn’t much. They had sat in silence for a long time, mostly looking at Tessa sleeping with her head on Bridget’s lap. She was such a clever, happy little girl, and Franky had a burning desire inside of her to make sure that Tessa had a better childhood than she did. Franky wanted Tessa safe, she loved her. 

‘You’re a psychologist,’ Allan had said, as he gestured at Tessa. ‘Do I tell her?’

‘Not yet,’ Bridget told him. Tessa was so young, and Franky wouldn’t want her to know yet. ‘Wait until we know what’s happening. It might be a few days, or weeks. I hope not months.’

‘She’s not a killer, Bridget,’ Allan had said as he looked into her eyes again. His own were earnest. ‘I know my little girl, and she talks tough but she’s a sweetheart. You know that.’

‘I know,’ Bridget assured him with a sad smile. ‘She’s never had it in for this man. She hurt him years ago in the heat of the moment because she couldn’t control her anger, that’s all.’

‘Yeah. I mean I know it’s serious but Franky’s done her time, right? What happens now?’

‘A trial,’ Bridget said. ‘Wentworth in the meantime unless we can apply for bail, but it’s unlikely given the charges.’

‘Can I visit?’ Allan asked hopefully, quickly. ‘And not behind glass like I did once before, but like, in the room with everyone else, so I can hug her?’ 

Bridget smiled at him. 

‘She’d probably like that,’ she said. ‘Maybe not right away, she needs to readjust.’

‘Yeah, ‘course,’ he agreed as he nodded. ‘Shit, Bridget, she’s not gonna cope back in there.’

‘Yes she will,’ Bridget said. ‘Franky’s resilience is not something you should ever doubt.’

‘And you’ll be there too, right?’ Allan had asked. ‘I mean, you work there, you’ll see her?’

‘Not as much as I’d like, obviously,’ Bridget said with a small smile. Allan huffed sadly. ‘I’ll see her as soon as she arrives,’ Bridget had then promised. ‘I’ll let you know how she is.’

‘Tell her we’re thinking of her,’ Allan said. He gestured to Tessa again and added, ‘Tell her Tessa misses her. I’ll get Tess to do a drawing for her, lots of really colourful drawings of the park and the beach and all of us, you as well, y’know…for her, uh, for her wall in there.’ 

For the walls in her cell. Yes, Bridget thought that was a good idea. Franky was going to need help to remember everything and everyone from the real world who would be waiting to embrace her the moment they sorted this whole mess out, but that wasn’t going to be easy. The women wanted Ferguson to pay for Bea, and Top Dog Kaz had put a moratorium on violence. The pack was restless, and before Bea Smith, Franky had been one tough Top Dog. Violence? Payback? No problems. They would want her. Allie would especially want her. 

Bridget was nervous about that, even as she sat at her desk inside her office to call Allan and fulfil her promise to him. No one ever won against Ferguson, not in the long run. Could they be the first? Franky and Bridget both had the measure of the woman, and Ferguson knew that about them, but would that matter? Did any of it fucking matter? What if she died like Bea?

Bridget knew there was no point going around in circles posing rhetorical questions like that, though. Franky was safe for the time being and she was herself. What they needed now was a plan. Franky needed a lawyer, and the police needed time to continue their investigation; hopefully they would gather enough evidence to prove Franky didn’t do it. Bridget also needed to find a way to see her, to touch her, without Vera or anyone else getting in the way. 

“Bridget, hi,” Allan said when he answered his mobile phone. Bridget had called from her own mobile phone, and he had her number so he knew it was her. “Did you see her?”

He really did love his daughter, Bridget thought with a smile. Contrary to what Franky had thought for the majority of her life, her dad had stuck it out in that abusive family home for as long as he physically and mentally could, and he had taken off to save himself. He left his daughter behind when she was ten and never came back for her, but he had his own demons to fight and maybe he still did. Now that Franky could empathise with her father’s story and understand their past better, it was okay. It wasn’t perfect, Franky and Allan had a somewhat awkward, friendly relationship, but it was one founded on the deepest love. Franky had only loathed Allan for leaving for so many years because she loved him; she always desperately wanted him back in her life. Likewise, he never stopped loving her and he blamed himself for what became of her. With Tessa’s help, they had all been putting a family back together. 

“I did see her,” Bridget said to the older man. “Franky’s here, she’s just arrived. She looks really good, Allan. She’s safe, calm, and she’s a bit scared for now but she’s doing okay.”

That was true of all of them, she thought. Bridget desperately hoped the fear would pass.


	9. Franky

“Okay Franky,” Will said when they were done with her admission. He sighed and stood. “Grab your basket, go join the others.”

Franky pouted at him as her eyes briefly filled with tears. She let him see her sadness. 

“I don’t want ‘em to see me,” she said. His brown eyes were full of empathy, as he reached for the new polaroids attached to her file and held one up. It was her colourful phoenix tattoo.

“With good quality ink like this you’re gonna be hard to miss, Franky.”

That’s my tattoo, Franky thought. Not theirs. It was for her, for her and Bridget. Bridget had been surprised when she turned up with it; she had known Franky was going to get a new tattoo but she had never imagined something so large and bright, and even though Franky had worked with the artist to design it, she also honestly hadn’t been able to imagine how it would suit her until it was done, and it did. Bridget’s blue eyes had gone wide when she saw Franky’s left arm without the plastic wrap. She held Franky by the shoulder and wrist to look closely at it. ‘Wow, baby, that’s beautiful,’ she had said. Franky was still in the process of trying to convince her to get a tattoo of her own, she was badass enough by day to pull it off, but Bridget could also be a chicken, she felt pain, and she was such a softie… Franky felt like shit as she blinked back tears and shook her head. She grimaced and turned away from Will.

“I don’t suppose if I’m nice to ya, like if I’m just being me, and I ask to walk the back way-”

“Sorry Franky,” Will said gently. “It wouldn’t be fair to the other women, and you don’t wanna be seen to be going after any special treatment around here, y’hear me?”

Franky nodded and crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“But,” Will added, as he coaxed her eyes back towards his with his kind voice. He offered her a small smile. “I appreciate you being you, I think you should stay that way. You remember who you are and what you’ve got out there, remember who you’ve got, all the people in your life wanting you outta here. You’re a good person, Franky. I know you didn’t kill that bloke.”

Franky took a deep breath and asked, “Then can I ask one favour before I go out there, Will?”

He raised his eyebrows at the use of his first name but Franky just stared at him. She was the same woman she had been at Bea’s funeral, at the cemetery, and the times they’d run in to each other. She wasn’t trying to manipulate him, she wanted to remind him she was human.

“What?” he asked. He might have sounded sceptical if he didn’t know her so well. 

Franky chewed on her bottom lip briefly and glanced skywards to stop her tears from falling. Fuck, she had to get that better under control. It was because she’d seen Bridget, and it hadn’t been for long enough, and they hadn’t been allowed to talk. Franky had gotten so used to being allowed to cry whenever she wanted; even if she cried at work she just went into the ladies’ toilets and dabbed at her eyes and no one gave a shit. Her old Legal Relief boss, Imogen Fessler, sometimes came in and put an arm around her and talked her through what she was feeling about a case or a client. She understood Franky, she really believed in her. 

But Franky couldn’t just cry anymore. It made her weak, it labelled her as ‘not coping’, and knowing Vera she wouldn’t just let Franky have counselling sessions with Bridget to take the pain away. No, she would bring in another psychologist, or maybe even would force her to see the same psychiatrist as Ferguson? If that happened, and Ferguson found out, Franky had no doubt the Freak would mind-fuck the psychiatrist to get to Franky. It could never happen.

“Franky?” Will probed when she didn’t ask him the favour she had requested. “What is it?”

Franky stared directly into his eyes with as much earnest force as she could muster. 

“Look out for Bridget?” she asked. “Not obviously,” she added when Will raised his brow. “But I mean, the rumours from last time; I don’t want her to get hurt cos of me. Some of the women, like Juice and her boys? If they knew about…I mean if they really believed it, they might try to have a go at her, to take their fair share of the prison psych too, y’know? Please.”

“I always look out for the safety of the staff,” he told her seriously. “All of the staff.”

“Thanks,” Franky whispered as she brushed her cheeks and sat forward. It was time to go. 

“You should be careful about that too,” Will told her as he stood. “I reckon that protective feeling you’ve got might be reciprocated. Reckon I might need to make another promise to someone else about pretty much the same thing, eh?”

He grinned at her and Franky did her best to chuckle. She shrugged, his intentions were good but after twenty-four hours of this bullshit she she felt numb, and she allowed herself to be herded out of the room by the shepherd with the capsicum spray on his belt buckle. Baa.

To his credit, Will held Franky back and allowed her to walk into the yard as last in line, on the way to her cell. It meant he was right behind her in case there was any trouble, and Franky appreciated that so fucking much. The cat-calls started as soon as the guard up front opened the gates to the yard. Franky recognised Juice’s voice long before she saw her again. 

“I smell fresh meat!” Juice declared. “Pussy buffet!” Only she pronounced it boo-fay like the fucking trash-talking bogan lezzo cunt she was. Franky felt sick. She had sucked on that cunt to save her life once and she never wanted to stoop so low again. Bridget was…everything better about the world wrapped up into a pretty little package, and she tasted better too. 

Franky saw Kim Chang first. Kim, one of her old lovers. Franky had been so critical of Kim when she deliberately broke parole because she couldn’t handle the real world, apparently because she was still in love with Franky, but that was bullshit because they never were in love. Franky wondered what Kim thought of her now, as she turned back to the fence to glance at the memorial for Bea, and the picture of Bea and her daughter surrounded by red crepe paper and ribbons, and some of the flowers that Franky had told Bridget she should get for the women to put in the fence. That had been Franky’s idea, and no one knew it but her.

“Franky!” 

Franky had been trying to avoid looking to where her eyes had automatically wanted to go. She knew where her old crew would be sitting, at their table like always. Liz, Doreen, Maxine, not Bea, but Boomer too of course, and it was Boomer who had seen her first. 

Boomer was lovingly innocent and simple, not the brightest woman but not entirely stupid either. She was easily led and Franky had used her when she was Top Dog as a bit of a bash artist, but Boomer also had the biggest, most loyal heart to match her tall, soft, squishy body. 

Franky had truly missed her. Bridget always told Franky about Boomer after she saw her, she was always bringing home Boomer stories, and they would laugh kindly about her over the dinner table, or Franky would lie on the couch with her head in Bridget’s lap and they would trade. Franky knew the sweetest stories about Boomer, she wanted Bridget to know them too. 

That wasn’t going to happen anymore, Franky thought. The last time she had walked into Wentworth, she didn’t have any memories that she wanted to hold on to. She had nothing on the outside worth being on the outside for, so she had felt very little walking in other than that raw, ignorant, first-timer fear and, ‘fuck, how am I gonna survive this?’ There had been nothing outside of Wentworth, nothing to look back on as she sat in her cell every damn day.

Franky had so much in her head now, she had so much in a life that already felt a million miles away…she didn’t know if it was better or worse that way. It hurt more, she was sure of that, and she didn’t want Boomer to know how fucking disappointed she was to be back.

“I love you! I love you Franky!” Boomer shouted excitedly across the yard. She sounded so fucking sincere. 

I love you too, Franky tried to tell Boomer and the rest of them with a brief look, but she couldn’t meet their eyes, she couldn’t deal with them all yet. She wanted to go to her cell and remember all her good stuff until she fell asleep and woke up with Bridget in her arms again. 

“She’s gonna sort everything out, no fucking worries!” Boomer was saying to the women. 

Fuck, Franky thought. Will was right behind her. He had only just warned her about this. 

‘I appreciate you being you,’ he had said. ‘I think you should stay that way.’ Franky thought so too. She was going to try really fucking hard to just be herself. She was stubborn enough.

“Hey, look out, Franky’s back,” Boomer said. “Now you’re gonna see what a real Top Dog’s like.”

No you’re not, Franky thought. Sorry Boomer. Franky had one goal, and it was to turn around and walk right back out that fucking gate, and soon. This wasn’t her home, it never would be.

They all followed her to her new cell, though. Franky always knew that they would. She had barely put her basket of teal trackies down before she heard familiar footsteps; still familiar, even after ten months apart. She saw them enter the common room, but they couldn’t see her.

“Franky,” Boomer called out as they all came to a halt. Doreen, Boomer, Liz and Maxine. 

Franky stepped out to face them. She felt so sorry, she had let them down. She was meant to have gotten out and made good, she was never meant to have seen them again, not like this. She should have been the person they always thought of as a role model, she wanted them to look up to her, just like she wanted a lot of people to look up to her and think, ‘she made it’. 

There was an ego wrapped up in that desire to be recognised and to achieve that kind of success but that didn’t make it wrong, it just made her proud of her life, and she should have been proud. She should have been at home, working hard and feeling proud. Instead she was there, staring at old friends. She felt like they didn’t even know her anymore. They had never known her, how could they? When Franky had known them she hadn’t even known herself. 

And they looked exactly the same, and she felt so different. It broke her heart to realise it.

Maxine waved at her but Franky couldn’t bring herself to do anything yet. They stood apart for seconds, four against one. They didn’t look disappointed, that was the thing. They didn’t look as sad as she felt, and fuck it, she had missed them all so fucking much, especially on the really hard days, and there had been a lot of them. And Boomer, she loved Booms to bits.

“Ah, come here you big lug!” she finally drawled. She had to make Boomer’s day on this, and she could do with the hug she knew she was going to get. God, she needed a hug. She walked forward and Boomer laughed with a big, open mouth. Boomer leant down to grab Franky. She hoisted her up off the ground in her strong arms crying, “You scrawny bitch!”

Yeah, that’s me, Franky thought. She shut her eyes to fully embrace the moment, and wrapped her arms tightly around Boomer’s neck and back. She could hear Doreen laughing. 

“You couldn’t stay away, could ya?”

That was what got said in jail when a person ended up back inside, like somehow they always wanted it to end up that way, or like it was fate they re-offended. It was all bullshit of course. 

It felt good to hug Boomer though, and to have someone love on her again, even if it wasn’t Bridget. It did help, these were her mates and they loved her too. Franky smiled, until Liz took her hands. Liz, who was the only mother Franky ever had who gave a shit about her. 

Liz was an alcoholic doing time for manslaughter, after killing her mother-in-law when she was drunk one day a long time ago, but when she was sober she was gentle, thoughtful, and Franky still remembered the night not long before she was paroled when she went to Liz. Franky had been scared of the unknown and low on self-confidence. Liz had wrapped Franky up in her arms and let her cry, and she had whispered to Franky how proud she was of her, how she had noticed such big changes in Franky, and she had said Franky was ready for and deserving of her freedom. Franky believed her, she still did, but she wasn’t sure if Liz believed herself anymore, seeing as how Franky was standing right in front of her again.

“Hey, it’s good to see ya,” Liz said as she squeezed Franky’s hands in her own. She was honest. “It’s not good you’re back in here, but you know what I mean. You okay?” she asked.

What was Franky meant to say to that? No, I want to fucking die? I want to scream the fucking place down that I didn’t do anything and I want to go home to be with my girlfriend?

“Yep,” she said instead, as she glanced skyward and plastered an accepting kind of grimace on her face. After all, life was so great at Wentworth she just couldn’t stay away, right?

Then again, maybe if she did scream about it with her friends – in a normal voice of course, like, talking – maybe they could help her out. She wasn’t scared to ask for help anymore.

Franky said hello to Doreen, grabbed her ass for a bit of a laugh, and the opportunity to talk arose quickly when Doreen asked if she’d broken parole. Doreen was so kind, she cared too.

“It’s a long story but the cops reckon I murdered someone,” Franky said matter-of-factly.

“Bullshit!” Boomer declared immediately. She could not have sounded any more stunned. Franky was immediately reassured that these women did know her. Once upon a time they had known her better than any other people, and she had been their Top Dog, she had done a lot of shit and organised a lot of shit, but at least they knew her well enough to know immediately that Franky Doyle and murder did not belong in the same fucking sentence.

“Mike Pennisi,” she said when they asked who it was. They all knew who he was, of course. They’d all seen the YouTube video too. Everyone knew everyone else’s crime, just like everyone knew what everyone else’s bare tits and ass looked like. It was a fucking zoo.

They wanted her back in H1. Franky always knew that they would want that, but she had requested H3 for some distance, because she didn’t want back into the gang. Franky hated to think about it like that but fuck, she was a Top Dog, she’d been the fucking gang leader, so fuck it, she could call it whatever the fuck she wanted. She wanted friends, not pressure. She also didn’t want Bea’s cell. It was too soon, she didn’t want to sleep in her dead friend’s bed.

“You can have mine,” Maxine said from her seat. “I’m being transferred to Barnhurst.”

“Why? What’s happening?” Franky asked. 

“Chemo, for breast cancer.” She said it with a bittersweet smile but Franky felt her heart break for Maxine. She was transgender, she had been through so much already, and now she had breast cancer? Franky smiled sadly as well but it was more of a reflex to mimic Maxine than anything else, and she hugged her lanky friend tightly. When they parted, Maxine kept Franky close with an arm around her waist, and Franky draped an arm around her shoulders. She rubbed Maxine’s far shoulder and upper arm to comfort her, and to comfort herself. 

The old Franky Doyle wouldn’t have done that. There had always been hugging between her and her girls, a bit of playful ass-slapping and tit-grabbing, but not prolonged physical support. For Maxi now, though? It was worth it and necessary. Bridget was always going on about how affectionate Franky was too, how touchy she was, how much she loved physical closeness; touching legs under the table as they ate, or not just fucking but body-on-body sex. Franky couldn’t be sure when she acknowledged that in herself, but it felt safe and right to have Maxine’s hand wrapped around her ribs. She was protected, she was going to be okay. 

However, Franky barely processed all of that before Boomer asked at the top of her lungs, “When are you gonna make your move for Top Dog? We gotta get Ferguson for what she done to Bea.” Fuck, Franky didn’t disagree, but she had been back for five fucking minutes. She just wanted to stand still for a while longer, with her arm around Maxine, and vice versa.


	10. Bridget

Bridget ended her phone call with Franky’s lawyer quickly when she saw Will Jackson approach her closed office door. The blinds that ran the length of her internal window were open and he peered inside to check she was alone first, before knocking twice and opening the door to poke his head in. Bridget hung up her phone and offered him a muted smile. 

“I thought our appointment was tomorrow,” she told him. 

“Oh, it is,” he said. He hesitated, and Bridget raised her eyebrows as she waited. “Sorry about before,” he said finally. He gestured behind him to some imaginary place, but Bridget knew exactly what he was talking about. “I was just doing paperwork and had my head down over the desk, I didn’t see you there for long before Vera came running ‘round the corner.”

“That’s because I wasn’t there for long,” Bridget said. “I didn’t see you at all.” She sighed, too tired to play games and asked, “Is that all, Will?”

“Have you spoken to her yet?” he wanted to know. 

Bridget pressed her lips together and answered with her eyes. No, she hadn’t spoken to Franky in about twenty-four hours, since Franky had called her on the phone from the police station to say she had been arrested. It was killing her, and she could only imagine how constrained Franky was suddenly feeling. 

“Do you even want to speak to Franky?” Will asked. 

“What?” Bridget’s heart was aching and he asked that? “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s a question to find out if it’s gonna be worth it if I told you where she’s headed on work detail with her unit today,” he said. “I wouldn’t want any trouble, if you know what I mean.”

“How likely do you think it is that the Franky Doyle who walked into your office today is gonna give you any trouble, hey?” Bridget asked. Honestly, the woman was a kitten when she wasn’t armoured by the anger she had always blamed on people who didn’t even matter to her life anymore. Franky had let all of that go, and she had stepped out from behind those protective walls before she got paroled. Bridget didn’t think Franky had it in her to rebuild.

Will shrugged and looked seriously into her eyes.

“Today, not likely. Tomorrow? Who knows. You know what this place does to the women, Bridget. I got my eye on her but so does everybody else. I hear she’s already had visitors.”

“Oh?” Bridget asked with a raised eyebrow. She sucked in a breath and held it and waited. She wanted names, and Will was clearly in a sharing mood. 

“Kaz,” he said. “Whipped it out and sprayed the walls for her.”

“That’s charming,” Bridget said as she narrowed her eyes. It was also no surprise that the prison’s Top Dog had gone to Franky’s cell to issue a polite but firm, ‘back off, bitch’. Fine.

Franky probably told Kaz to fuck off. After Bea took over as Top Dog, Franky hadn’t cared about the job for that last year inside. In fact she had been relieved, and she had told Bridget that on many occasions since. She had been so fucking exhausted by the time Bea took over that she had been more than happy to be able to get away from all the mind-fucks and power-plays and just do her own thing. Franky was an introvert at heart, she needed her quiet time.

“And Allie,” Will said more cautiously, as his voice dragged Bridget’s full attention back to his dark, kind eyes. “Dunno what that was about. Bea, I guess. Ferguson.”

Bridget took a deep breath to settle her nerves as her heart suddenly thudded in her chest. She nodded. She had expected that as well but perhaps just not so soon. After Allie’s failed attempt to take Ferguson down in the yard, and the spectacular way in which it had backfired on the women who had come to Allie’s aid, it was no surprise that Allie wanted to try again.

She had never met Franky before Bea’s death, but Bea would likely have told Allie about Franky’s visits, about how well she was doing on the outside, and of course Allie would have heard the legendary Top Dog stories too. Together, Bea and Franky had toppled Ferguson as Governor. They had done it once, they could do it again, this time with Allie in Bea’s place. 

And if Allie didn’t know it already, it wouldn’t take long before she realised that Franky had a certain familiarity with Joan, which meant she could get under Ferguson’s skin and really piss her off. Franky could wind Ferguson up better than most because Franky was at least equal in intellect, and she was completely sane and measured. Ferguson would never admit it because her delusions had surely grown in scale since Bridget last spoke to her, but there had been a time when she measured her own deficiencies – to the extent she was aware of them – against the qualities of Franky Doyle, and a part of Ferguson knew she came off second best.

Joan Ferguson never stopped at second best.

“Where’s she headed?” Bridget asked without another moment’s hesitation. Will smiled.

*

Later that afternoon, Bridget found Franky on the stairs. Bridget had been loitering near the top and peering over casually, until she caught a glimpse of an ochre sweater instead of a teal hoodie. She jogged down the stairs and wound her way down, just as Franky was ambling up. 

“Franky!” Bridget hissed. 

Franky’s eyes went wide when she saw her, and God, Bridget wanted to hold her. Not yet, not here, she had been telling herself in preparation. It was enough for now to see her in person, to look into her eyes and speak to her. Franky seemed to have dismissed the idea of ever seeing Bridget again, actually; she looked shocked that Bridget had walked straight into her, but her green eyes also lit up and she appeared instantly more alert than the version of Franky who had been trudging to ‘work’. It definitely wasn’t the same as Legal Relief. 

In her periphery Bridget saw one of Franky’s hands reach for her, while the other clenched into a fist at her side. That fist said, ‘don’t touch Bridget, not here’. Franky was resisting too. 

They stood on the wide concrete landing to talk. Bridget could not help the whispered words that spilled out from her then, or the urgent, worried tone to her voice. She had never been ‘worried sick’ before; she never really understood what that meant until Franky made that phone call to her. Her words, and the whole impossibility of this fucked situation had been going around in circles in her head all day. It didn’t make any sense that they arrested Franky so fast. Bridget had to look into Franky’s eyes and ask the questions, she had to know more. 

“They can’t seriously think that you did anything to Mike Pennisi, I mean you only saw that guy once at the café.”

Franky’s serious green eyes bore into Bridget’s in earnest for a couple of seconds, until they lowered and her expression became more apologetic. When Franky looked back into her eyes to offer that apology, Bridget knew immediately that there was something she didn’t know.

“Oh baby,” she whispered. Seriously, now she was scared. “I told you not to go near him.”

“I thought the café was an accident,” Franky said in a calm, measured voice as they bent their heads together. “And then he kept ringing me and he sent photos of us, you and me at home. He was stalking me.”

Bridget searched Franky’s eyes with her own as her breathing grew shallow. She couldn’t believe what Franky was saying! Well actually, she could believe it, and she did believe it unequivocally because Franky sounded so sincere, but how could Bridget not have known?

Bridget looked back up the stairs to make sure no one was coming down them, before staring back into Franky’s eyes to plead with her to understand how difficult this could become. 

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she asked.

“I couldn’t, I was trying to protect ya,” Franky said, as though that was obvious. 

Fuck, Bridget thought. Of course that was why. Franky and her deep need to save and protect. 

“From what?” Bridget asked her. “Fuck, look where the fuck we are now!” she hissed with an urgent sense of claustrophobia, as she looked around at the concrete walls and dim stairway. 

Bridget had to be there every day, that was her job and she was the one who walked those halls, and on good days she did love it dearly, but Franky did not belong there, and this was not where their relationship belonged either. Bridget didn’t know if their relationship could actually survive Franky being incarcerated again, perhaps for life? That terrified her, it was all she had been thinking about for the past day. She needed her, couldn’t Franky see that?

Yes, she could, Bridget realised as soon as Franky’s soothing voice chimed in. Fuck, she sounded so fucking calm. In any other situation, Bridget would have been so fucking proud. 

Screw it, she still was. This was not the angry, frustrated, tired inmate Bridget had first met.

“Gidge, chill,” Franky assured her with wide eyes and a raised, ‘believe me’ brow. Her simple expression bordered on a smile. “Really it’s gonna be okay,” she said. “It has to be, I didn’t do anything.”

There they were, the words Bridget had wanted to hear in person, and not just over the phone. How could Bridget deny the truth in that beautiful, self-assured voice? How could the police ever have doubted her, if she said it like that? Bridget did feel calmer watching her say it, not because it was obvious Franky was right and the cops were wrong and she was going to be released any minute, but because Bridget could tell that Franky’s self-confidence and hope were intact. That was important. She could not lose hope, she would not survive without it.

“Okay, well I’m not going to take any chances,” Bridget assured her quietly. “I’ve hired Marcus Pearce to represent you.” He was the best criminal defence Queen’s Counsel in the State, and Bridget knew that Franky would recognise the name. She wanted to reassure her.

“He costs a fortune,” Franky immediately lamented. She looked apologetically at Bridget again, as though Bridget shouldn’t be wasting her money on a man like that. They both knew this wasn’t what they were meant to be spending their money on right now, sure. They were meant to be looking for a new home to buy, but Bridget didn’t care about that anymore. There wasn’t going to be a new home if they couldn’t get Franky out of Wentworth, and fast. 

“You know how the system works, you only get what you pay for,” she reminded her. 

Bridget heard footsteps on the landing above them and saw Franky’s eyes lift to observe them. They had to end this conversation before someone saw them and the rumours began. Bridget had decided that keeping her job was important, at least for the time being. She had regular access to Franky inside those halls and they could still see each other every day even if it wasn’t ideal; they would both prefer to see each other every day in any other setting.

Franky looked straight into Bridget eyes and again said, “I didn’t do anything”. 

“Okay,” Bridget whispered. “All right.” She believed her, and she was still proud of her.

Franky could handle this, Bridget thought as she continued down the stairs and left Franky on her own. She was coping well. Will was right in that it was only day one and a lot could go wrong from this point onwards, but so far Franky was the same calm, confident woman who Bridget had sent off to work the previous morning with a playful kiss on the cheek.

She just hadn’t come home yet, that was all, and she would.


	11. Franky

As Bridget left her, Franky watched Ferguson on the landing above. Bridget hadn’t seen her, thank God, it would have freaked her out too much. Bridget had looked and sounded so fucking scared and Franky got it, she did. The last time she got into Wentworth, no one on the outside gave a shit about it. Well, her dad had but she hadn’t given a shit about him back then so that didn’t count. This time though, Franky had Bridget, as well as her dad and Tessa. Bridget was particularly invested and it had always been a high-risk investment, but it was one they both thought had paid off. Bridget had invested her whole heart and it was such a strong, loyal heart, and Franky had always been so fucking grateful for that. This bullshit could too easily ruin Bridget’s life as well as her own. It could ruin their life in a heartbeat.

Franky hoped that she had said enough to reassure Bridget that everything would be okay, she really wanted Bridget to believe that. She hated when Bridget got upset, it hurt so much.

She walked up the stairs to meet Ferguson on the landing above and seethed at the sight of the Freak’s smug smile and sparkling, dark brown eyes. 

“Well-well-well-well-well,” Ferguson sang. “Like ships in the night.”

You stay the fuck away from her, Franky wanted to say, but she didn’t want to antagonise the bitch. It wouldn’t get them anywhere, and Franky had no intention of fighting the Freak. 

“You have got no idea how much it gladdens my heart to see you back,” Ferguson said. 

I bet, Franky thought. None of the other women were a match for her, she was easily superior to all of them in intellect and willpower. The Freak was probably bored out of her deluded, overactive mind now Bea was gone, and there was no one else who was worth fucking with.

Well, you are not going to fuck with me either, Joan, Franky thought, with crisp politeness. 

“All my career I’ve maintained that the offender rehabilitation program is a complete waste of taxpayer’s money,” Ferguson continued. 

Mm, Franky thought. She bet Ferguson really believed she still had that career too. Up inside that twisted head of hers she was still Governor, or even if she had come to accept that she wasn’t, Franky was sure that she was convinced she would be Governor again one day soon.

Good fucking luck. 

Franky felt quite smug herself as she stood and listened. She understood more about the world than Ferguson ever could, she knew more about Ferguson than Ferguson ever would. 

“One cannot deny the animal within,” Ferguson hissed in her face. 

Franky leant forward and stared into her dark, gleaming eyes. Ferguson was a psychopath and she had gone too far, she had been too weak to control her violent instincts and to put aside the sick delusions that supported her ego. She was cracked, and would never lead a functional adult life again, not in Franky’s world. Franky wanted her to know that she saw everything.

“No they can’t, can they,” she said. 

Franky saw it, the delicious moment Ferguson looked at her and heard all that Franky had implied. Franky knew she had touched a nerve because for a brief moment Ferguson could not look her in the eyes. She stared down her nose at Franky but it wasn’t snobbery, it was regret; quickly dealt with of course, as her eyes flicked back and her voice scoffed, “Ha”. 

Franky briefly hummed. I’m onto you, she said. I’ve really pissed you off now, haven’t I?

“Looking forward to seeing your criminal instincts aroused,” Ferguson told her. 

Yeah, Ferguson was pissed off all right. That was fine with Franky, she didn’t want to play.

“Oh don’t hold your breath,” she told Ferguson. “Go mind-fuck someone else.” She pressed her lips together and smiled, satisfied with how this conversation had gone after so many months apart. She was the first to have the last word and the first to walk away. Fucking ace.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Ferguson called out behind her. It meant nothing.

*

That afternoon Franky grunted in frustration as she threw her fists into the punching bag in the exercise yard, one after the other. She could not give in, she could not stop fighting. 

Franky had forgotten how much this hurt, she had forgotten how it made her sweat, but she needed every piece of physical strength she could find to put back inside her and she needed it fast, because for a few brief moments that morning with Bridget and Ferguson she had been having so much fun she had totally forgotten how fucked she was to be there. 

Whoever shot Pennisi had done a real number on her, and she was starting to get a real ache in her guts about it. She punched the bag to emphasise every thought that played in her head.

After seeing Bridget – and fuck, it had been so fucking good to speak to Bridget, Franky fucking missed her again already and it had only been a few fucking hours since they met on the stairs, how pathetic! – Franky had finally met Marcus Pearce her QC, and she had freely given a sample of her DNA to the forensics guys to test, and she had sat down with the two Homicide detectives working to find out who killed Pennisi. Or at least that’s what they were meant to be doing, but it didn’t seem like they were trying too hard now they had Franky in jail. They didn’t believe her. She told them everything and they didn’t fucking believe her!

Mike had been shot from three metres away, they said, and that immediately shot down any whimsical idea Franky had that he had killed himself and tried to set her up for it, all because he was so angry that she beat the crap out of him. A person had to be really messed up to end their life like that, for that reason; to kill themselves just to get revenge on someone else, with no guarantee of a conviction and without the payoff of being alive to see that person’s downfall. That was a fucked up kind of sacrifice, and Pennisi had been angry and desperate for her attention, but not like that. He had wanted that payoff, he had wanted to see her suffer.

And then – fuck – then the cops had to go and show her the photo of the gun that killed him and ask her if she had seen it before. That was something else Franky had never called triple zero about. She hadn’t called triple zero about Mike trying to burn her in her car, she hadn’t gone to the cops about the fact he was stalking her, and long before all of that, she hadn’t called triple zero about Ferguson’s godson Shane Butler sticking a gun in her face around the corner from the courthouse on the day Ferguson was acquitted. Franky should have made that call, but she didn’t. Possession of an unlicensed firearm was a breach of her parole and she had not wanted to get the traumatised teenager into more trouble than he was already in. 

So she had dumped that gun into a fucking dumpster in the middle of fucking nowhere and she had thought that was the end of it. 

Fuck, she hadn’t even told Bridget, and now her arrogant little shit of a lawyer was probably going to fix that, and then Bridget would know about it all, and she would know that Franky lied by omission, and Franky wouldn’t ever get the chance to say it right. Everything was fucked now too, because if that gun really was involved then someone had gone to a lot of fucking trouble to stitch her up for this, it wasn’t just some crazy misunderstanding at all.

Fuck!

Franky didn’t even understand. She knew Mike had been following her by then because he had pictures of her and Bridget from way before then. So he might have been following her that day and he could have gone into the dumpster after she dumped the gun and retrieved it, but if he didn’t shoot himself, then how did he end up getting shot with that gun? Had he been planning to set her up, and someone else had gotten to him first, and it was just a coincidence that they’d picked up the first weapon they found in Mike’s house and it was that particular gun? Or had a second person been following Franky all that time too? Had a second person been there that day and they had picked up the gun? Narr, that was so unlikely! No one got stalked by two people at once, then one kills the other, right? Fucking impossible! 

Mike had to have been the one to pick up the gun. It had to have been all part of his master plan to make her pay for chucking that oil on him. But if that was true then who had shot him with it? Had he told someone about all this? Had someone pushed him into it from the start?

Maybe that was it, Franky thought as she slammed her fists into the punching bag. Maybe someone had gotten into his head and coerced him, and then they had gotten frustrated by his complete inability to actually kill her. He really had escalated quickly. From a simple meeting that seemed to have been by chance, to phone calls and photographs, to clear verbal threats and physical assault, in the space of three fucking days? No wonder she hadn’t called the cops, she had been in shock half the time trying to process what the fuck had just happened to her life! And then just like that he was dead. It all happened too fast, it didn’t make sense. 

If Mike wanted the payoff at the end, if he had really wanted to see Franky suffer, then he should have dragged it out, nice and slow. He should have baited her over time, dropped hints along the way, freaked Bridget the fuck out in the process, and maybe in the end they could have squared off in one final battle. Franky knew she always would have won something like that. Mike was taller but he was not a fighter, and if Franky knew how to do one thing, it was how to fight to save herself. Bridget too. Bridget had been raped in her youth, she had fought too, and she was tough as nails and the most protective ally Franky ever had besides Boomer.

Bridget and Booms were equally protective of her, actually, just in completely different ways. 

Franky was thinking about them both as Allie approached the gate. She was bruised and one of her eyes was reddened by broken capillaries after her failed attack on Ferguson. Amateur hour, as Franky heard it. No one understood Ferguson like she did, or like Bea had. Allie couldn’t just try to take her out in the yard like that; the Freak would have expected it, easy.

“Must have been bad news,” Allie said with a fence still between them. “Cops get something on ya?”

Franky didn’t want to talk, she just wanted to box. She could have the rest of her life to try to live inside this shithole, and she didn’t want to lose her health. She had never been healthier. Sure, she and Bridget didn’t work out so much; Bridget did yoga and Franky sometimes went for a run, but they ate good food and they were full-up on love and they had been very happy. Those three things, things that made her well, they were all fucked. That left her with a body and a mind that she had to keep strong in other ways, with weights, boxing, sit-ups, and sleep. 

Allie couldn’t take the hint that Franky wanted to be left alone. She just stood there. Jesus!

“What are we, best friends now?” Franky asked her as she paused her training. 

“To be honest, it kind of looks like you need one,” Allie said. 

Franky re-set her stance and hit the bag again and again. Did Allie really think that? She was Franky Doyle, a Top Dog. She had Liz, Boomer, Doreen and Maxine all looking out for her, she had Will and Bridget and even Governor Bennett probably looking out for her, and on top of that, she was covered in kickass bright tatts, and one look from within the fierce green eyes she’d inherited from her psycho mother was enough to intimidate half the uneducated junkies in the place. Needed a friend, did she? Narr, that was bullshit. She needed to go home!

She hit the bag again and almost immediately knew that she wasn’t going home, not for ages.

Fuck. 

Franky stepped back from the bag and pulled the sweaty fringe out of her eyes. Just as Allie went to walk away, Franky called her back. She also returned to her boxing.

“Murder weapon’s turned up,” she said. “It’s a gun.”

“Well that’s a good thing, isn’t it? If you didn’t do it?” Allie asked through the fence.

“Yeah I wish,” Franky said. 

“Just tell the cops you’ve never seen it before.”

Franky met her eyes, and she let Allie see her uncertainty, her fear. That was exactly what she had told the cops, but she was really fucking scared they already knew it was a lie. 

“Oh shit,” Allie said in a softer voice when she realised. “You have seen it before.”

Franky abandoned the punching bag to meet Allie at the fence so they could talk quietly.

“Busted one of my clients with it,” she said. “I chucked it, now it’s turned up again.”

“How is that even possible?” Allie asked.

“I dunno, I don’t get it,” Franky said. She really didn’t. She had no fucking clue.

“Does anyone else know about the gun?”

“No, just him.”

“Could he have followed you, to where you dumped it?” Allie asked.

“Well maybe, but he’s not a killer,” Franky said. She had kept in touch with Shane. Franky really wanted to help get him back on track, he was a good kid and he was doing all right.

“Yeah still, he might know something.”

I know something, Franky thought as she met Allie’s more innocent eyes. 

“He’s Ferguson’s godson.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Allie asked in a suddenly more urgent tone. 

Franky grimaced and shook her head. She really was dealing with a situation that was totally fucked. Ferguson told Shane to kill one of the witnesses at her trial, and he got so freaked out when Franky caught him that he tried it on with her instead. Franky dumped the gun the Freak probably bought for him in the first place, someone picked it up after she left, and they shot Pennisi with it, but only after he had stalked her for months beforehand and also the very day after he tried to kill her. Franky had wiped the gun but couldn’t be sure it was clean. Shit!

“Franky,” Allie said. “You gotta talk to this kid, that can’t be a coincidence.”

Augh, I know, she thought as she looked skywards and huffed. There was sky up there, it was blue, and she wasn’t connected to it anymore. If that was because of Ferguson? Or Shane?

“Fuck!” she huffed as she sent another heavy punch into the nearby bag. 

At her next opportunity that same afternoon, Franky cornered Will in a quiet hallway. 

“I need to talk to ya,” she said with serious, earnest eyes. “I need to arrange a visitor. He's on the Freak's list, so he doesn’t need to go through all that approval bullshit again, right?”

“Depends,” Will said. He smirked and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Who?” 

He’s going to love this, Franky thought. Will knew that Shane was linked to Ferguson.

“Shane Butler,” Franky said. When he scoffed, she rolled her eyes and held her hands up in surrender. “I know, I know but it’s important, and Ferguson can’t know he’s here. Please?”

Will was known for doing the odd favour in return for a little respect. That hadn’t changed.


	12. Bridget

Bridget arrived at work the next day, having left the night before to return to an empty house. She had poured herself a glass of wine and stood at the sink to drink it. Outside it had already been dark, because she had lingered at Wentworth for longer than she had in a long time. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t reach out to Franky physically while she was there; at least being at Wentworth meant being near her. It was better than being at home, and lying in bed without her while she stared at the ceiling and imagined Franky in her cell, doing the same.

She arrived at work early again too. Bridget did have real work to catch up on. It was going to be a long day speaking to women she had rescheduled from the previous day, and she didn’t want Vera to think that she was so distraught she was slacking off. That would only give Vera another reason to fire her, and right now Bridget just wanted to be close to Franky.

She wanted to talk to her again too. Bridget had been thinking a lot about what Franky had told her on the stairs; that Mike had been stalking her, that he had sent her photographs of the two of them. Bridget knew it could only have happened within the space of a few days. She believed that the day Franky told her about Mike really had been the first time she saw him, and as Bridget had worked forwards from that point, she had realised that Franky’s apparent tiredness, her need for quiet, her panic attack, it had all been evidence that she was feeling harassed, helpless and afraid, and that was down to Mike. He had pursued her vigorously.

Bridget hated him for it, even if he was already dead. 

As she settled in at her desk for the morning she remembered what she had done the night before. Emboldened after a couple of glasses of red, Bridget had grabbed the torch from the pantry and had trudged out to the dark green garbage bin with its red lid where it sat around the side of her house. She hadn’t cared one iota what the neighbours thought, if they even saw her dumpster-diving on her own property for the evidence of the small fire Franky had copped to one night in the last week. The following morning she had told Bridget that she burned a credit card statement in the sink instead of shredding it. Bridget had believed her at the time but now she knew that Mike had sent her photographs, she doubted Franky’s story.

It was difficult to burn photographs completely, more difficult than paper. With each, Franky would have needed to hold the corner of the material while the rest was alight, and there had been no burns on her hands the next morning when Bridget had kissed her fingertips. That meant Franky, like most people who would attempt the same feat, had dropped the remaining corners of the photographs into the sink to let them burn on for as long as possible. Paper could be relied upon to curl in on itself, to blacken, to burn quickly and easily if a match or lighter was held just above it. Photographic paper was a different composition, it had to melt. 

When Bridget had asked Franky what took her so long to come to bed that night, Franky had said something about taking out the trash. Bridget had gone hunting for that bag with the determination of a detective, and she had brought it back inside and had gone through food scraps, old packaging and used tissues, until she found what she had been looking for; charred corners of photographs, seven in total. They were pretty big corners too, they must have been enlargements and Franky had certainly protected herself from the open flame. But in and of themselves they showed nothing; a shrub, a street, the sky. There was nothing left to prove that those photographs contained images of Franky and Bridget that they could have felt threatened by. Franky had destroyed all the evidence, and she had done so deliberately.

Bridget couldn’t understand why. Franky so easily could have walked into a police station and said, ‘This man I assaulted once, I’ve done my time for it and now he’s threatening me, he sent me these, he’s been calling me and harassing me, trying to get me to break parole,’ and they would have been obliged to act. Any half-decent uniformed constable would have followed it up in earnest. Franky had missed that opportunity, and now it was lost forever.

Bridget had saved what was left of the photographs to give to the police but she knew they didn’t give a shit at this point. Even if they could prove that Mike had sent those photos, and if there was a chance to find the original images on his computer, for example, all it really did now was prove that Franky had a motive to kill Mike. He was threatening her, he was threatening her relationship with Bridget. She kills him, and that threat is gone, that’s motive.

It was bullshit, but at least Bridget arrived at work that day feeling as though she had accomplished something. They were a team, they had to keep working together on this. 

“Knock-knock,” Will said as he stepped into her office. She had left the door wide open this time, and he smiled through closed lips and clasped his hands in front of himself. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Bridget said with a smile. “Come on in.”

The main reason she had arrived early to work was for the obligatory psych assessment that Vera had asked her to run through with Will, seeing as how Vera had decided to lift his suspension and reinstate him as Deputy Governor, in light of Bea’s death and Ferguson’s continued presence in the general prison population. The woman was a constant threat, and Will was one of the most level-headed guards on staff. Ferguson had targeted him before but he was still there, still prepared to face off with her, still prepared to do right by the women.

“How are you today?” he asked as he took a seat in one of Bridget’s consultation chairs. She left her desk and joined him in the other, with Will’s file and a pen.

“Oh, all right,” Bridget assured him a tired sigh. “You?”

“Fine,” he said. They watched each other for long seconds, until Bridget smiled calmly at him. It was her, ‘I’m a therapist and I’m listening’ smile, and it either got people talking or pissed them right off. “Look, I’m not a head-case,” Will said. “I just dropped an E at a club.”

“So you do want to be Deputy again?” Bridget asked. 

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” he asked.

“Well, sometimes we self-sabotage,” Bridget said, as her mind drifted to Franky. “Because we don’t actually want something or we don’t believe we deserve it.”

Bridget didn’t actually think that was Franky’s problem. Franky did have a history of self-sabotage. Bridget remembered telling Franky in one of their first sessions that she wanted to help Franky stop self-sabotaging. Back then, Franky truly had not believed that she deserved anything good to come of her life. Her mother had drilled that into her from a very young age, and despite Franky’s very strong inner voice telling her it was bullshit, she had still taken that message on board. It was almost impossible for victims of abuse to escape from that insidious breaking down of their self esteem. The strength that Franky had always possessed, with which she had always tried to resist it, was the reason she had been able to maintain such passion, such anger, for such a long period of time. Most people were not that strong. 

Franky hadn’t even ever self-medicated with drugs or alcohol. Hell, Bridget drank more than Franky ever had, and the past few nights it was Franky’s voice that Bridget heard in her head, telling her that she’d had enough, that she needed to put the wine away and have a long, hot shower and a cry in bed instead. Franky always favoured the shower as a remedy for stress, and Bridget had taken her advice, and had stood under the hot water until there was none left.

It wasn’t that Franky subconsciously didn’t want to be with Bridget, that was absolutely false, and it wasn’t that she didn’t think she deserved to be with Bridget either. Again, at the start of their relationship, at the beginning of her parole, sure, that had been an issue. But they were nearly at the end of that year now, and Franky’s self-esteem was as good as it had ever been. She had self-belief by the bucket-load, everything about her had lightened and softened. She walked out into the world with her head held high, and she felt secure and supported in their relationship. Franky knew she was deserving, and she absolutely knew that Bridget loved her.

No, self-sabotage was not the reason Franky had burned those photographs, and it was not the reason that she hadn’t told Bridget about them in the first place. She’d been scared, confused, and she had said the rest herself just the previous day; she had been trying to protect Bridget. 

Franky was fiercely loyal. Bridget had no doubt that Franky would gladly give her own life in order to save the life of someone she loved, like Bridget or Boomer, Tessa, or even her dad. Her need to protect the few people in her life that meant the most to her was so overwhelming to her that it could outweigh all rational options. Add a healthy dose of fear or stress to the mix and Franky had the potential to be as irrational as the next person, even with her smarts.

“How long have you been at Wentworth now?” Bridget asked Will when she realised that he had answered her question. No, he wasn’t so big on self-sabotage either, which was good.

“About six years,” he said. 

That was twice as long as Franky had spent there, Bridget calculated. Bridget herself had only been at Wentworth for less than two years. Considering that Will’s wife was once the Governor and she had died at Wentworth, the fact Will had gone on for five years after that event was a credit to him, and it was something Meg would surely have been proud of him for. He was a different man to the one Meg would have known, probably a better man now, but he was far from perfect, and Bridget knew that working at Wentworth was far from easy.

“You must really believe in what you do, to be here that long,” she said to him. 

“Well you have to, don’t you,” he said as they looked at each other. He knew Bridget understood as well. “But sometimes you fail people,” he added. 

“Anyone in particular?” Bridget asked, though she knew the answer. Will was talking about women like Franky and Bea. Bridget did not underestimate how disappointed Will was that Franky had returned. He had been proud of Franky, he had been rooting for her. “Bea Smith?” Bridget asked, only because she didn’t want to talk about Franky again, not yet. She didn’t think she could bear to hear him actually verbalise how he felt about Franky anymore.

“Yeah, I failed her,” he said of Bea instead. “We all did, all of us.”

Bridget had asked herself if there was anything she could have done to prevent what had happened to Bea, they had all asked themselves that question, but there was no right answer. 

Bridget had spoken to Bea about her sexuality not long before she died but that had nothing to do with her death other than it had obviously brought her some comfort in pursuing a relationship with Allie. Bridget did not think that was a failure on her part at all.

Bridget had also talked to Bea about depression, or she had tried to; Bea had resisted and Allie was really the one who had pulled Bea out of that dark, numbing place. Franky had helped as well, Bridget was sure of that. Bridget had gone to Franky and disclosed to her only as much as she had needed in order to get Franky to agree to return to Wentworth to visit her. 

‘Is she cutting? How bad is it?’ Franky had asked her. ‘Is it like a confused sexuality kind of self-harm, or is it a ‘fuck I’m a lifer I am never getting out of this fucking place’ kind of self-harm, or is it a bit of both, or something else? Honestly Bridget, tell me what you know.’

‘I don’t know,’ Bridget had answered. ‘I just think she might need a friend.’

Franky never turned her back on a friend, but she had resisted returning to Wentworth to visit anyone up until that point, and Bridget hadn’t held that against her. Franky wanted a fresh start, a complete separation from Wentworth and the life she had been working hard to build for herself. Yet Franky had then been brave enough and determined enough to walk into that visitor’s room to see Bea. Franky told Bridget later that she had given Bea a big hug and a few tongue-in-cheek lessons on being a lesbian, and Bridget knew that Bea appreciated that.

Those weren’t failings. In the end, Bea Smith had made her own decisions. 

“You don’t think she belonged in here?” Bridget asked Will. After all, Bea’s decisions and her actions had led her to Wentworth, just like Franky and all the other women in there. 

“That’s not my call,” Will said. “But if the system didn’t chew her up she might have been able to have a, um…” He drifted off and his eyes filled with tears as he turned his head to stare vaguely towards Bridget’s office wall. 

A better life? A longer life? Bridget thought either of those conclusions would suffice. Any chance at a normal life had passed Bea by, by the time that she died. She was a lifer. She had murdered someone in cold-blood after meticulously planning her own escape from prison to do so, and she had dragged Will into the whole debacle in the process. Franky was not the only person who was used by Bea; both were unintentionally instrumental in facilitating her clever escape. The odd thing was – or perhaps it was a great reflection on the relationship that had existed between all three of them – neither Franky nor Will ever held that against Bea. All of them understood vengeance, that drive to make someone pay for what they had done. 

The difference between them all, however, was that they had all chosen different paths. Bea had chosen to murder Brayden Holt for killing her daughter, Will had chosen to forgive Franky for killing his wife, and Franky had chosen to change, to prove to everyone who had abused her that she could be better than what they always told her that she was. She was not a killer. At her most basic level she just wanted to be loved by a family. She had not killed Mike Pennisi. She had coffee with him to try to help him, to offer him the benefit of her time. 

He had taken advantage of that good will for his own exercise in retribution, of course. Everyone was different. 

“Maybe you’re a compulsive rescuer,” Bridget said to Will with a gentle smile on her face, and without a hint of judgement in her voice. After all, that wasn’t always a bad thing.

Bridget was proud of Franky for deciding to have coffee with Mike. In hindsight it backfired, of course, but what she had been trying to achieve – restorative justice – was a noble pursuit. She had been attempting to ease his pain, their shared pain, to make their lives a little easier.

Working at Legal Relief was a good match for Franky’s strong save-and-protect instincts, because it allowed her to help people most in need of a little extra empathy and kindness. She could also put her keen legal mind to good use for her clients, she was great at negotiating positive outcomes for them. Some were ungrateful, unhelpful, of course there were those, but since she started at that job Franky had felt fulfilled, and she had become more professionally driven and purposeful. She had also been happy, Bridget only ever wanted her to be happy.

“No,” Will said. He was no saviour. “I just want to make sure the women get a fair go.”

He looked at her as though he knew that was why Bridget was there too, and it was true. Bridget had learned decades earlier not to try to save her clients. That behaviour only led to burn-out, frustration and heartache, and ultimately a serious lack of professionalism that could cost her the career she worked so hard for. On the surface, Franky looked like an exception, but that was a falsehood. Bridget supported her, but Franky had saved herself. 

“How’s that for a head-case?” Will asked. The implication being, if he was nuts, so was she. Bridget was hardly paying attention and she knew he was fine. She sometimes felt like she wasn’t.

“I don’t think I’ll be noting it down as my official diagnosis,” Bridget told him as she met his eyes and offered another kind, muted smile. “In fact, I won’t be making any diagnosis,” she continued. “I find you fit for duty and I’ll pass that on to the Governor. I do recommend you think about a Plan B, however, something to do if you ever decide to leave this place.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Bridget said. “That’s up to you.”

“Do you have one?” Will asked. “A Plan B?”

“Yes,” Bridget said with a calm sort of confidence that belied how significantly stepping back from her professional practice would change her life. It wasn’t what she wanted at that point in time, but working at Wentworth forever was not part of her life plan and never had been. For her own good health as well as for Franky, Bridget had known for a while that at some point she would need to step away. Bridget had options, and she was not afraid of them.

“I see,” Will said, even though he couldn’t know what was in her mind. “I’ll think about it.”


	13. Franky

“You sick fuck,” Franky said as she looked into Ferguson’s unfeeling eyes. She had just met with Shane, who confirmed that he got the gun from Ferguson’s own house, and Franky was sure he didn’t have anything to do with following her or retrieving it from the dumpster or setting her up for murder with it. He was just a kid, a young mate, he wanted to help her out. 

It was Ferguson. All roads led to the Freak.

“Don’t tell me they think it was you,” Ferguson said, mocking her surprise that Franky Doyle could be accused of murder. 

“It’ll never stick,” Franky warned her with a confident shake of her head and a glint in her eye. She had won before and she would win again. Ferguson was not as clever as she thought.

“You’re just a little bit worried it might,” Ferguson said as she lifted a piece of buttered bread to her mouth. “And so is your sapphic psychologist.”

Franky held her breath at the mention of Bridget and rage gripped her from the inside-out.

“You might be in for a bit of a dry patch.” 

Franky did not hesitate. She slapped her left hand down on the lunch table over her fork. She stretched across with her right hand to grab Ferguson by the collar of her black shirt, and she used that grip to help haul herself to her feet as she leant over the taller woman still seated on her side of the table. The fork was at Ferguson’s throat before Franky even let out the breath she was holding, and for a brief moment, Franky saw surprise in the older woman’s eyes. 

This was the woman who made Bridget feel like shit on a regular basis; she made life at Wentworth hell for all the women and all the staff, and that made Bridget’s working life stressful and full of crap. Ferguson had somehow even found out about Bridget’s rape from when she was just a kid, and had thrown it back in her face one day in the middle of a session for a laugh, to remind Bridget who really held the balance of power on the inside. Bridget was not easily intimidated and had worked in prisons for twenty fucking years, but Ferguson scared her, she scared the strongest woman Franky had ever known and that meant anything that came out of the Freak’s mouth about Bridget, and Franky was not just going to let it go. 

She wasn’t going to kill the bitch, but by God it felt good to suddenly have the upper hand.

“Go Franky! Bash her!” Boomer shouted in the background as she clapped. 

Hear that, Freak? Franky thought as she looked into her eyes. They all want you dead. 

“Doyle, let her go,” Will ordered as he came quickly into the kitchen. 

Yeah-yeah, she thought. She was only reminding Ferguson that her girl was way off-limits.

“And fuck you for Bea,” she added as her eyes filled with tears. She knew this was probably how close Bea had been to Ferguson when the Freak stabbed her thirteen fucking times. She wondered if there had been any genuine emotion in her eyes then, or none at all, like this.

“That’s it, there she is, there’s the old Franky Doyle,” Ferguson had whispered, triumphant. It was a false triumph though, it was all in her head. She hadn’t won anything. Franky smiled.

“You’re fucking lucky I’m not the old me.”

She left the kitchen and hurried down the hall, but Will followed her. 

“Franky,” he said. “Doyle, stop!” 

Franky groaned and turned. Fuck, did he have her on a fucking leash or something now? She strode right back up into his face, her eyes wide and pleading. She knew what she had to do.

“I wanna see the Governor,” she said. “I want you to take me to her, now. Please.”

“All right, just take a deep breath. Chill.”

“I’m chill,” she said. She took a step back, did as she was told, and raised her hands in peace.

Will took her straight to Vera’s office. There was another screw there, some pretty-boy she might have seen when she visited Bea but didn’t quite remember. She thought his name was Jake, only because Bridget had mentioned a Jake a couple of times. Bridget always seemed ambivalent towards him in her stories, he was still new, but Franky immediately did not like the look of him at all. She did not like the way he was leaning against the cabinet behind Vera’s desk, as Vera sat at her desk, like he was quietly overseeing the Governor at her post. If that was true that was fucking bullshit, but Franky had a more pressing matter to address. 

“Ferguson knows who killed Mike Pennisi.”

“Oh excellent,” Vera said, unable to hide the droll sense of humour that Franky quite liked about her, though she had never told her that. “Then all we have to do is ask her for a name.”

“It was the same person who shot Jesper for her.”

“You seriously think she’s trying to frame you?” Vera asked, sounding more serious.

“Yeah, she’s made an art form out of fucking up people’s lives,” Franky reminded her. Ferguson had done a pretty bang-up job of trying to fuck up Vera’s life too, if Franky remembered correctly. Had Vera forgotten, all of a sudden?

“She framed me for Harry Smith,” Will chimed in too. Bless you Mr J, Franky thought. 

“What do you expect me to do with this information?” Vera asked. 

“Well you could check her recent calls and see who she’s been speaking to, and I can get my lawyer onto it,” Franky reasoned. It made perfect sense, there had to be a clue somewhere! 

“It is not the department’s role to go on fishing expeditions for inmates,” Vera said pointedly. 

Fuck. That shut Franky up pretty fucking quickly. Inmates. 

There was a time when Franky had embraced her role as an inmate, for the first couple of years at Wentworth, but from the moment she became eligible to apply for her parole she had wanted to be more. Then Bridget came into her life, and this want to shed the label and to be recognised as a human worthy of a little love and attention became a desperate, burning need.

Franky knew she was back inside Wentworth, unlike Ferguson she was not delusional, but she didn’t see herself as an inmate. She wasn’t sure she could see herself that way ever again. It would mean leaving everything else behind. It would mean forgetting everything important to her, and everyone. She had been free, she had been offered a permanent job, she’d had friends and colleagues who respected her and they bought her flowers. She had a little sister who needed her love, and a good dad who struggled sometimes and who probably needed more of her strength and support than he would ever admit. And of course she had Bridget. Bridget didn’t see her as an inmate. Bridget had only ever seen her as Franky Doyle, and the inmate thing had just been a minor complicating label that they both knew would be dropped as soon as Franky got her parole, and they could move on. They had moved on from ‘inmate’. 

She wasn’t an inmate. Franky looked deeply into Vera’s eyes and tried to remind her of that too. Not that long ago Franky had stood with Vera as they visited Bea’s headstone. Vera knew that Franky was Bridget’s partner, she knew they were not just fucking around and that there was genuine love there, and if she respected Bridget at all, she had to respect Franky. 

Please, she tried to say with her wide, expressive eyes. Please. I’m sorry, I’m not an inmate. I won’t hurt you again, I’m not like the others. You know me, Vera. I just want to go home.

“…but I’ll look into it,” Vera added finally. 

“I need to know now,” Franky said. A part of her didn’t believe it; this was too important to risk it being a flippant promise by a Governor who was just humouring her best friend’s fuck.

“I will look into it,” Vera said more firmly. She stood, and that was Franky’s cue to leave.

*

Will walked her part of the way back to her cell and then Franky was on her own. She could have gone back to the kitchen to actually eat something this time, but she didn’t want to run into Ferguson or the others again, and she just wanted to go and lie in her cell like the fucking useless inmate she was. She had no power in this place, she couldn’t achieve anything. She couldn’t help herself, her autonomy – poof – it was gone. She couldn’t even make her own fucking sandwich, which was all she wanted. A tasty, salad sandwich with some grated carrot and fresh lettuce, a couple of slices of Bridget’s favourite cheese that was now also Franky’s favourite cheese, and a really strong cup of tea that she could just sit with and chill out over.

It was like a fucking dream, but really it was just last Sunday. Bridget had been stretched out along the couch, reading a novel, and when Franky finished her sandwich she had brought her mug of tea over to the couch as well. Bridget had rested her head in Franky’s lap for another hour or so. Franky’s tea had gone cold before she finished it, but she hadn’t cared. 

That had been her life last Sunday. Now? She was sticking forks into the Freak’s neck and pleading with the Governor not to treat her like a piece of dirty gum stuck to the bottom of her polished black boot. It didn’t matter that the food was shit too; she’d lost her appetite.

Franky wasn’t in a good mood when she got back to her cell, she was tired and hungry and upset, and she was in a way worse mood when she realised her cell door was open, and someone was in there. Why couldn’t everyone just leave her and her property the fuck alone? 

It was Boomer. Franky loved her but she couldn’t deal with this now. She wasn’t ready.

“Oi.”

“Ohh!” Boomer exclaimed when she realised she was busted. She was kneeling on Franky’s mattress and had been pinning magazine cut-outs of women in their underwear to Franky’s pinboard. “Shit Franky, I was gonna surprise ya,” Boomer said when she turned around.

“Oh well, mission accomplished what the fuck are you doing?” Franky asked, wide-eyed and huffy.

“There’s hot pictures,” Boomer said with an excited gleam in her brown eyes as she pointed.

“Yeah I can see,” Franky said. She knew Boomer was trying to make Franky’s new space more like her old one, when yes, her cell had been decorated with loads of pics of hot women wearing hardly anything. Franky didn’t care about that shit now though. She could close her eyes and conjure up a million pics of her hot lover whenever she wanted, and she didn’t want that shit on the walls in case people got the wrong idea about how she felt about being back.

“Yeah,” Boomer agreed. “This little cell was looking so frickin sad hey, as though you didn’t want to be here or somethin’.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Franky thought as she rolled her eyes. Someone finally fucking noticed!

“No shit, Booms.”

Franky hated that her voice trembled when she admitted that to her. She just wanted to cry by herself, in her cell, and figure out what she was going to do next. She had to prove Ferguson was behind Mike’s death, she just had to! But how? What if the phone records said nothing?

“Cos you’re a lezzo, right,” Boomer continued, oblivious to Franky’s distress. “So now you can just, like, lie back and tickle the taco while you look at ‘em.”

Boomer was so proud of her pictures and of her own thoughtfulness, and she lay back on Franky’s bed and pretended to masturbate like it was funny and no big deal. 

It was a big deal, actually. Franky hadn’t touched herself without Bridget beside her as an equal participant in months, not since they moved in together again. And even when they were living apart for those few months as well, most nights they ended up in bed on the phone to each other, and they would have sex together on the phone, and they would come together on the phone. Fuck, this wasn’t fair. A dry patch? Ha, the Freak had no fucking idea!

“Boomer, Booms,” Franky said. Boomer sat up with a big, happy grin on her face. Franky was trying so hard to get the words out but they were stuck somewhere between her heart and her throat and she didn’t know what to do. “I’m not staying,” she said as gently as she could, given how firmly she felt. “I don’t have anything on my walls because I don’t want it to feel like a home.” Her voice trembled again. 

This wasn’t home, just like she wasn’t an inmate. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Wentworth had been her home once but it would never be home again. Franky had the sort of home she had only ever dreamed about, waiting for her on the other side of those walls, in a shitty yellow wooden house, and she was going to get back there soon. Franky had to hold onto that belief. She was not going to sacrifice hope for the sake of a few naked models on the walls.

“But like, what about taking down Ferguson?” Boomer asked. “Cos you were like old Franky today-”

No, no! She was not like ‘old Franky’, she was nothing like the old Franky!

“I’m not taking down Ferguson!” Franky said more firmly this time, but Boomer wasn’t listening. She was giggling about what had happened in the kitchen still. 

“But next time we’ll do her together,” she was saying. “Cos we’re a team.”

Franky couldn’t listen to this, and she couldn’t look at those naked pictures that didn’t belong to her or Bridget a second longer. She strode forward, balanced one knee on the bed, and ripped them down in front of Boomer. Boomer scurried out of the way as Franky threw the pictures onto the mattress between them. They were disgusting, immature, and she didn’t need them to know what she was missing out on, all right? She knew. She fucking knew! 

“Hey! What’d you do that for?” Boomer exclaimed, confused. 

Franky was all out of patience. Her heart was broken and her voice cracked as she turned to Boomer and looked her in the eyes. She screamed at her. She wanted to scream at everyone. 

“I never want this to feel like a home again, now fuck off and get outta here!”

Almost as soon as the words were out Franky felt calmer just for having said them, but Boomer stared at her, stunned at first, then angry that Franky had yelled at her for a reason she didn’t understand. She picked up one of the scrunched-up images and chucked it towards Franky like a sullen toddler in a strop. Franky turned her head away, a reflex only, as the lightweight paper barely made it to the bed and was certainly no threat. Boomer stormed off.

Franky rolled her head around her tense shoulders and stifled the urge to both laugh and cry.

Good one Franky, she told herself. So day two of this nightmare was going well, then.

Franky sat down on the bed with a sad smile on her face, because Boomer was a softie, and Franky was sorry for shouting at her. They had always been so close, maybe Franky just felt safer blowing off steam in front of Booms. Then again, Franky would have blown her top at whoever she had come across that afternoon. She felt so much calmer now, so really Boomer had done her a huge favour by standing there and taking it. Franky would thank her for it.


	14. Bridget

“They’re bringing Doyle up now,” Jake said over the phone that evening, as the sun dropped low in the sky and filtered soft white light in through the open blinds in Bridget’s office. The sun’s final rays flickered in the space around her like an antique slideshow. It was beautiful. 

“Thank you,” Bridget said before she hung up. She felt like she couldn’t breathe as she stood. She braced her hands on the desk and thought about how lucky she was to get this moment.

Vera had already left for the day and Bridget had been about to leave as well; she had been halfway to her car when she saw Jake returning to work from his own car. Bridget saw her chance and was not going to waste an opportunity. She called him back to speak casually.

‘Vera wanted me to ask you how Franky Doyle is getting on?’ Just an inquiry, nothing more.

‘Uh, not too good actually,’ he said, squinting in the sun. ‘She’s been spouting some pretty crazy stuff out there.’

Bridget looked at him thoughtfully. Crazy stuff about being innocent, no doubt, though Bridget had heard what had happened in the kitchen with Ferguson. It was only day two.

‘Sounds like I should have a chat with her,’ she said. A professional chat, nothing more.

‘Yeah that’d be good, maybe in the morning,’ Jake had agreed.

‘I could do it now, if you like.’ Bridget had to do it now, while Vera was absent. Vera had told Bridget to be careful, but that implied permission to occasionally run into Franky did not necessarily extend to permission to be alone with Franky in her office. God, Bridget wanted more than anything to be alone with Franky in her office. ‘It’s all right,’ she said when Jake reminded her she was on her way home. ‘I haven’t got anywhere to be.’ It was so true. All that waited for her at home was their washing and a stack of burned corners of photographs.

But soon she would have Franky in her arms again, her love, and everything would be okay. 

Bridget took a deep breath. She could not collapse the second that Franky walked through her office door. She had to wait until they were alone, and she hoped that Franky was in the right frame of mind for this. She hoped that Franky wanted this meeting as much as she did, and that when the screws had gone to her cell and said, ‘Miss Westfall wants to see you, Doyle,’ that she understood that this was a chance they might not get again for a very long time.

Bridget took another breath, and moved to close the blinds that shielded her office interior from anyone walking the halls. She made sure they were tightly closed, just as there were three rapid knocks on her door. That was quick, she thought. Savour this, she told herself.

“Come in,” she said, as she hurried towards the door to hold it open and to usher Franky in past the guard who had escorted her. 

Franky barely looked at Bridget as she trudged in, but Bridget knew it was an act. Oh, woe is me, I’m being dragged to visit the psychologist, what a useless fucking waste of Franky-time! 

As soon as the door was shut and they were alone, Franky dropped the act and let out a breath that told Bridget exactly how she was really feeling. Franky spun around on her heels in the centre of Bridget’s office and reached for her. Bridget hurried to her with desperation and relief in her eyes and her own arms outstretched. She saw the urgent need for physical closeness in Franky’s eyes as well, and Bridget slid her arms around her waist to hold her.

God, she was real, Bridget thought as she touched Franky and felt her ribs expanding and contracting with each precious, rapid breach. She was warm and alive and she was still real.

Franky had gone to hug Bridget but changed her mind at the last second. She lifted her hands to grasp Bridget’s jaw just as Bridget hugged her, and she tilted Bridget’s face up so that she could lean down and seal their lips in a firm kiss. 

Bridget had wanted this so badly. Those lips, fuck, Bridget could kiss and nibble her way along those lips all fucking day until Franky groaned in ecstasy. Kissing Franky and being kissed by Franky; there was no equivalent in Bridget’s life and there never would be. This was it. Every time they kissed, Bridget knew that Franky was it, the one, that one person who was perfect for her even with all her imperfections, and Bridget never wanted to let her go. 

She hummed with the urgency of the embrace and because every part of her was aching.

She was nearly crying when Franky ended the kiss and looked skywards. 

“Fuck, I want to come home,” Franky said with a desperate, joyful smile on her face. Her thumbs stroked Bridget’s cheeks and she briefly lifted her hands to allow all her fingertips to gently follow the same route. Bridget shut her eyes at Franky’s touch as she wept in reply. 

“I want you to come home.” 

She managed a teary smile before Franky sealed their lips together again. As this new kiss lingered, Bridget wrapped her hand around the back of Franky’s neck. She whimpered when the truth hit her hard; Franky wasn’t coming home, no matter how badly they both wanted it. 

One of Franky’s hands rose to cover the crown of Bridget’s head, just like she sometimes held Bridget when they were making love. They swayed as the kiss ended and Franky buried her face in Bridget’s neck. Franky was spent and she just wanted a cuddle, she just wanted to be close. My poor baby, Bridget thought through unshed tears. Both hands wrapped around Franky’s back and Bridget patted her back to soothe her as they rocked and as Bridget spoke. 

“I heard you attacked Ferguson, baby, you can’t do that I’m worried sick,” she said. She wasn’t eating, she wasn’t drinking, she wasn’t sleeping, and Franky had to be faring worse.

“She’s trying to fit me up,” Franky said when she lifted her head and held Bridget by the shoulders. She very quickly took Bridget’s face in her hands again. “She had a gun planted and she reckons it’s mine.”

“A gun?” Bridget asked on a whisper. Franky nodded and dropped her hands to hold onto Bridget’s arms by her waist. 

“Yeah,” she said in a quiet voice that cracked. 

“But it’s not,” Bridget said, just to be clear that Ferguson was playing games. 

“No, of course not!” Franky insisted in a soft, half-frustrated whine, but Bridget had to ask.

“So you’re innocent, right?” she asked gently.

“Yeah, are you fucking kidding me?” Franky huffed with wide, expressive green eyes. Her voice revealed her fears. “Ferguson’s the psycho, she’s not gonna stop until I’m back here.”

Bridget held Franky’s hands in her palms by her waist. She calmed down for long enough to look surely into Franky’s eyes. Franky looked frustrated and upset, and Bridget needed to reassure her now. They were stronger than Ferguson, together and apart, and they would sort this out, then Franky could come home. In the meantime Franky just had to stay calm, safe, and she could not allow herself to be baited, not by Ferguson or by any of the other women.

Still, when Bridget next spoke, her voice remained barely more than a whisper. It shook with her own fear that this was simply too much to ask of Franky, especially if Ferguson attacked.

“Just don’t let her drag you into something that you’re gonna regret,” she said. 

The look in Franky’s eyes as she pulled Bridget into another hug told Bridget that Franky did understand, and she had made that promise to herself already, and she knew it would be hard to keep. Bridget’s heart ached as it thudded rapidly, and she pressed her lips to Franky’s ear. 

“Baby, hold tight,” she whispered. She kissed Franky’s cheek. She loved her more than she had ever allowed herself to love another person, and she knew what a great responsibility it was to hold Franky’s fragile heart in her own; Franky had never allowed herself to be loved like this by any other person either. Bridget wanted to keep her safe, always. They wrapped their arms tightly around each other again as they swayed. “Okay?” Bridget told her. She rubbed Franky’s back to try to soothe them both, to reassure Franky that they would be all right, even as Franky held so tightly to Bridget, that Bridget knew she didn’t want to let go. Bridget wanted to reassure her that she wasn’t letting go either. “Just hold tight, both of us.” 

The words were barely out of Bridget’s mouth before a series of rapid knocks sounded at the door and they were forced apart. Bridget exhaled in shock as she pulled away, Franky might have pushed her a little too, just to help them to create a decent metre between their bodies half a second before Will burst through the door. He looked to Franky first, then to Bridget. 

“It’s the police, they want to interview Doyle,” he said, and without even a goodbye Franky walked straight out of the office, like she hadn’t even wanted to be there in the first place.

Bridget didn’t even think they had been in each other’s company for a minute. One minute. One minute with Franky in her arms. That was pathetic, wasn’t it? It wasn’t good enough.

Once Will shut the office door and Bridget was alone again, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed desperately, sadly into her palms. She could smell Franky with her now, she could feel her hot breath and soft lips, and she had been reminded of the innocently fierce way Franky always hugged her, like Bridget was a treasured teddy bear from her childhood. 

Fuck, Bridget hoped that Franky always felt half as safe and adored in her arms as Bridget always felt in Franky’s. Bridget was a psychologist but that didn’t mean she had a natural ability to comfort people. In fact she didn’t, and that was actually part of what made her a good psychologist. Bridget empathised with distance, and that was how she had conducted most of her romantic relationships too. But with Franky, how Bridget behaved and what she felt, the things she said, that was all different. There was a deep, primal urge to hold her, to be close to her, to surrender all her inhibitions to her, and it had been easy to give in and not second-guess herself. Franky certainly never second-guessed Bridget. She adored her and showered her with love and affection, anything from a gentle, hour-long head-rub on the weekend that put Bridget to sleep on Franky’s lap, or sex more nights of the week than not.

When Franky got out of jail, Bridget didn’t even think they would make it to the bedroom before they were completely naked and fucking each other up against a wall. Fuck, Bridget could imagine it, she could visualise it happening and she fucking prayed that it came true.

Bridget also truly hoped that this one brief minute in her office had been enough to calm Franky’s nerves, to ease her mind and to give her strength for another interview with the police. She had already been arrested and charged, remanded in custody, but the police were still in the process of gathering evidence. If they didn’t find enough evidence to put together a case against Franky that the Department of Public Prosecutions believed they could prove beyond all reasonable doubt, then there was still a chance that the charges could be dropped. 

Bridget was worried for Franky’s future even if that did happen, though. What would become of her job with Legal Relief? Bridget wondered if she should contact them, just to keep them informed, even just to let them know that Franky was at Wentworth and so far she was all right. Franky hadn’t said anything about work, she hadn’t asked Bridget to speak to Legal Relief on her behalf, but knowing Franky she had probably assumed her bosses had simply written her off as a lost cause, a mistake. Bridget needed to make sure that didn’t happen. 

She went straight there from Wentworth. 

“How is she?” Miles Strathairn asked as soon as they sat down at his desk. The office was quiet, it was past quitting time but Bridget had taken a gamble that he would still be there. 

“Franky’s coping as well as can be expected,” Bridget said with a thoughtful smile as she observed his kind, clever eyes. “We’re not very sure at this point what happened but the man she’s accused of murdering was harassing her. Telephone calls, photographs, approaching her on the street; she was panicked but didn’t confide in me. Did she say anything to you?”

“No,” he said. He glanced at his hands and a guilty look briefly crossed his fair, middle-aged face before he looked back into Bridget’s eyes. “She tried to, a couple of times over the last few days, and she’d seemed stressed, she was making silly mistakes, that was unlike her. Franky did want to talk to me but we were busy, I brushed her off. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his jaw as they stared at each other. “You’re Bridget?” he asked finally. “You’re…her partner?”

Bridget had already introduced herself as such, but she nodded calmly once again. 

“Yes,” she said. She raised an eyebrow to silently question why he was double-checking. 

“She said she had a girlfriend. I just imagined…I don’t know, something different. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Bridget, this has really caught all of us off guard, and without Franky here…frankly I’m not sure that we’re all coping as well as should be expected, given the circumstances.”

“I want to make sure you haven’t written Franky off,” Bridget said in earnest. “It sounds trite to sit here and say it, but Franky is innocent, and this job means the world to her.”

“I know it does, and I believe you, and her,” Miles said. “I uh, I’ve had a couple of long talks with my counterpart at the other office, Franky might have mentioned her, Imogen Fessler?”

“Yes, Franky’s always spoken highly of you both.”

“Franky was trying to call Imogen the day she was arrested, they were close, she came to ask me why she couldn’t get in touch. Imogen’s now struggling with the idea she could have helped her in some way. Franky obviously knew she was in trouble before she was arrested.”

“Her parole conditions prohibited her from having any contact with Mike Pennisi,” Bridget reminded him. “They ran into each other at a café, innocently we thought at the time, and she sat and had a coffee with him to talk over the past and to apologise, but that wasn’t enough and in hindsight he arranged to casually bump into her. I believe he arranged everything.”

“Even his death?”

“Maybe not,” she said seriously as she crossed her legs. “But he certainly helped to make things difficult for Franky, and I don’t think he’d be disappointed with the outcome.”

“You said he sent photos,” Miles said, frowning. “Was he blackmailing her? Is there proof?”

“Franky burnt them; not her best decision. I found the remnants and they prove nothing,” Bridget said. “I don’t know about blackmail, but they were proof that Franky wasn’t always living at her registered address as per her parole conditions. She’s been living with me.”

“She never updated her details?” Miles asked. His brow rose and he looked genuinely surprised. “It’s easy enough to do, I’m sure her parole officer would have signed off on it. There’s nothing preventing parolees from getting on with their lives and changing address.”

“No,” Bridget conceded. “But I don’t think she wanted my name on an official record.”

“Why?” Mike asked with a dry smirk. His eyes twinkled. “What is it that you do, Bridget?”

“I’m not a criminal mastermind, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Bridget replied, coy. He could find out easily enough if he really wanted to know, he knew her full name now. “But Franky has her reasons, and I dare say the main reason she failed to seek help at the appropriate times here – because she never notified the police of the harassment – has been an attempt to protect me, and us, and because quite frankly she’s not used to asking for help.”

“She was trying to,” Miles said again. “I didn’t listen to her, shit. But Imogen and I will help now, we’ve agreed on whatever we can do. If Franky needs a defence we will provide it.” 

Bridget appreciated that and sincerely thanked him for the offer, before heading home, alone.


	15. Franky

Franky had screamed at Boomer earlier, but that was child’s play compared to what Franky unleashed when she got back to her cell after meeting with the cops, and after firing her QC.

Fuck! She was fucked! The only way she was ever getting out of Wentworth again was in a fucking coffin after she was fucking dead, and Bridget would probably kill Franky herself!

Her DNA was on the gun, and why wouldn’t it be, right? She had touched it, stuck it in between her pants and her sweaty lower back to hide it from plain sight while she took it to the dumpster. She had thought of fingerprints, but DNA in the grooves of the stupid gun didn’t even occur to her. What did she know about guns? She hadn’t held one until that day!

They must have rushed the test, too, because Franky was pretty fucking sure it normally took more than thirty-six fucking hours for a DNA test to come back, and she was going to make sure she had that retested by the best fucking lab in the country before her trial. She didn’t need that smug asshole Pearce either; she would represent herself if the judge let her, for all the good it would do when the prosecution trotted out the fucking DNA results like they were God’s gift to crime-fighting. Franky knew better than that. She knew what really happened.

Why hadn’t she been able to just say it? She had been so worried about breaching parole and having to serve the rest of her sentence, two fucking years, and now she was looking at life. 

Fuck! 

In her cell, Franky picked up the teal tracksuit from the built-in storage under her bed. Women on remand weren’t required to wear it and even though Franky understood she would fit in better if she did, she had resisted. These were her clothes, she had a right to wear her own fucking clothes. This was her life, she had a right to make her own fucking decisions. 

So much for using her superpower of autonomy for good instead of evil, though. What right did she have to make decisions for herself anymore? She had made so many wrong ones, she had just forfeited that right, probably forever. She was never getting out. Never. Getting. Out. 

‘Fuck you, Franky,’ she heard in her head. It was her mother’s voice. ‘You stupid little bitch. You think you’re better than me? Do you? Do you? Well, fuck you. Fuck you, Francesca.’

“Fuck you!” Franky huffed as she hurled her teal tracksuit across her cell. She didn’t know if she was talking to herself or her mum, or if it even mattered. Nothing fucking mattered anymore. Rage against her own stupid mistakes swirled within her and she screamed at the top of her vocal range as all the panic and the fear and the anger came rushing out of her. 

“Get me out, you fucking idiot!” she screamed. She could have gotten herself out of this. Dammit, she should have gotten herself out of this whole fucking mess before she even got close to coming back in, and now she was stuck. She knew how this worked from hereon in, she could not win. No jury was ever going to believe her. Fucking never! And why not?

Because she was a convicted criminal. She threw a pan of boiling oil in somebody’s face. She was a violent delinquent. She was beyond help.

Ferguson. Those were Ferguson’s words. She had said them to Bridget one of the first times Bridget even met her, she had said them right in front of Franky outside the door to the Slot. Bridget hadn’t believed Ferguson then, but she might now, when she found out what Franky had done, and if Bridget thought she was guilty and beyond help, twelve strangers would too. 

Franky screamed in agony as her heart broke and her abdomen contracted in guilt and anger. 

She overturned her table, dragged her sheets off the bed and flipped her mattress before trying to haul it halfway across the cell. The chair at her desk, her papers, a copy of her statement; if it wasn’t bolted down it was swept aside and overturned. This wasn’t home! 

It wasn’t going to be her fucking forever home! 

Franky leant against the brick wall and screamed until her lungs burned. She lifted her hands over her head when she finally ran out of breath, and slid down the wall until her bum hit the cold, concrete floor. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, heavy, heaving sobs. 

She just wanted to go home. 

No one dared come into her cell, or even showed their face through the glass panel on the door. Franky hadn’t had a meltdown like it since she confessed in Bridget’s office to killing Meg Jackson. Even that probably wasn’t as bad, Franky reasoned as she took deep breaths like Bridget would have told her to do, and she tried to get her wheezing and wailing under control, to calm down. She was not an angry person, not in her heart, this wasn’t her. She was just so fucking devastated. It felt so much worse this time. She’d had so much more to lose and she had lost it. Boom. This amazing, beautiful life that she had known was gone. Over. 

“I’m so sorry,” she wept, as she curled in on herself and lay down on her tossed-about sheet. “I’m sorry. I want to go home, I’m so sorry.” 

Franky was apologising to Bridget, she wanted Bridget. She was also apologising to herself. 

*

Franky woke to the sound of the ‘count will commence in ten minutes’ wake-up call, and in the dim light of morning she sat up with a start, not because of the announcement but because she remembered her treasure, her freedom necklace, the one Bridget got her. Franky had been dreaming about Bridget and about the two of them, and her face was damp from the tears she had cried in her sleep. The necklace was now the most important thing Franky had that was hers and no one else’s, and she wanted to be buried with it one day, it meant that much to her.

Franky had to find it, she had to make sure she hadn’t destroyed it the previous night when she went bat-shit crazy on all her stuff! She had hidden it between the mattress and the cover-sheet, but she had flipped the mattress and tried to chuck it around, and it easily could have moved or fallen out. Franky scrambled. She didn’t have a lot of time, and if the screws came in for the headcount and saw her cell in the state it was in, they might conduct a full search.

No, she realised with a sigh of relief when she found it on the mattress. It was safe; that flat, delicate silver kite with the red string tied around the base for a tail. The chain was intact too.

Franky sobbed as she sat back against the brick on the floor and let the kite dangle from between her fingers. She held her freedom in her hands; her life had been hers, once. It felt like years ago she had been given the chance to be the best she could be. It felt like years ago Bridget had held her and told her to, ‘hold tight, baby’, that they both just had to hold tight. 

That was yesterday, Franky reminded herself. She could not let time pass her by. She would not let herself lose days or weeks or months inside Wentworth. She had to be strong. She felt like shit right now, like her heart had been carved into a thousand pieces by Ferguson and Pennisi and by herself? But maybe that crushing pain would pass like her anger. Maybe. 

Allie came then, wanting to talk. Franky wasn’t stupid; she knew Allie had been waiting for another good time to approach her about helping to knock off Ferguson, and word would have spread the night before that Franky Doyle was having a bat-shit meltdown in her cell. 

They were straight onto trying to recruit her, because they all thought she was at her weakest. 

Yeah? Well fuck that, Franky thought when she saw Allie standing at her door. Allie didn’t care about her, she barely knew her, and Franky didn’t owe her anything. Bea was dead. 

Franky didn’t want to talk and she wrapped her kite up in her hands to hide it from her. That was between her and Bridget, it was private. Franky just wanted to be left alone, but Allie wouldn’t fucking budge. She told Franky this stupid story about trashing her cell once too, only it was the wrong cell. It was so fucking stupid that Franky couldn’t help but laugh at her. 

“Yeah, well this is definitely my cell,” she told Allie. “And it will be forever now.”

“You don’t know that,” Allie said. 

“Last time there was some hope of getting out,” Franky said, as her weak voice shook. All that screaming, she was spent. “If I get convicted this time it’s gonna be twenty-five years.”

Franky would be sixty, and Bridget would be seventy-one years old. Seventy. Fucking. One. 

Allie saw her anguish and entered the cell. She sat down beside Franky and asked, “Do you still think it was Ferguson?”

“Yeah, it has to be,” Franky hissed as she looked into Allie’s eyes.

“Then let’s fix her up,” Allie said. “Permanently.”

And there it is, Franky thought on a lingering sob. Will, Vera, Bridget, everyone was begging her not to go down that path. Franky didn’t want to either, and now she had a really good reason why she couldn’t. She had convey that to Allie, too. As tempting as it was, nobody touched Ferguson until Franky got what she needed out of the unfeeling, psychopathic bitch!

“I can’t,” she said. 

“Sure we can,” Allie said with a quiet voice that might have been soothing on another day. 

“Nup,” Franky said as she shook her head and looked into Allie’s bloodshot blue eyes again. She had to be sincere, she had to make Allie understand just how important this was, and how important Bea would have believed that it was as well. Whatever happened, they couldn’t fuck this up. “I need her alive,” she said. “She’s the only fucker who knows who set me up.” 

Finding the triggerman was the only way Franky was ever getting out, and she had to make it happen, she had to find a way to make all this work in her favour. A silver kite full of love was digging into her palm and Franky didn’t want the next time she wore it to be at her own funeral, it was as simple as that. Once she was free? She would gladly wear it to the Freak’s. 

She also wouldn’t mind wearing it to her and Bridget’s wedding one day, but given Bridget was about to be blindsided by her – again – for now Franky would keep that idea firmly in that precious box of dreams and wishes she tucked away inside herself for safe-keeping.

*

When Franky heard about Maxine leaving for Barnhurst without any warning, she headed straight for Boomer’s cell. Franky knew they had gotten close because Bridget had told her. Boomer blabbed everything to everyone and she had no trouble telling Bridget her life story, because she really liked Bridget, and she remembered that Franky had really liked her too. 

Franky couldn’t leave things with Boomer the way she had left them the day before. It had been a really awful shit of a day, and now with Maxine gone, well, they both needed a hug. 

“Hey,” Franky said from the open doorway to Boomer’s cell. Boomer was on her side on her bed. Her round face was red from crying, and Franky knew all about that super-trendy look. “Guess I’m on the shit-list, hey?” she asked. “I’m really sorry about before.”

“You told me to fuck off,” Boomer mumbled sadly. “You fuck off.”

“It’s not that I don’t wanna hang out with ya,” Franky said, trying to explain in earnest. “I love you guys,” she said, with a tender voice still full of emotion. “You’re my family.”

They were the first family Franky ever really had, it was true. They had taught her so much about what it meant to be a part of a family, stuff she hadn’t ever learned before Wentworth. 

Franky hadn’t found a way to explain to Mike that these women were the reason why she wasn’t actually too sorry about what she did to him. She was sorry he got hurt, but she wasn’t sorry that she had ended up in Wentworth. She hated the place, it was the pits, but she had walked away from it with an experience that had filled the hole in her heart where a family was always meant to be. If she had the chance to go back and do it all again, she would. They meant more to her than any asshole she ever threw boiling oil on, she wasn’t sorry about that.

Franky walked into Boomer’s cell and sat beside her on the bed. 

The thing was, though, Franky had another family now. Again, she owed that to Wentworth. It was an awkward, eclectic extended family, and it was fragile, but it was loving and hers; her dad and Tessa, Mr Strathairn, Fessler, her workmates, Shane and Jimmy. Vera. Bridget.

Most of them probably hated her right now, but she hoped they stuck around. That was what family did, right? It didn’t mean that Franky loved Boomer and Liz and Doreen any less, she just loved them in a different way. They were her best crew and always would be, but Franky couldn’t ever imagine sitting in a café overlooking the river on a summer’s morning with them, while they all shared stories about work and uni and family life. They didn’t fit into that picture, that was all. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. People grew apart; she’d grown.

“I just don’t wanna be here anymore, full stop,” Franky tried to explain to Boomer. “I don’t want this to be my life.”

Franky wanted her life to be lazy mornings in bed with Bridget, and evenings cooking dinner together over a hot stove; nights of making love and holding Bridget’s hand as she slept. 

It wasn’t so far-fetched. Throw in the odd argument about stupid, normal shit, and that had been exactly her life, and Franky loved every fucking second of being a family with Bridget. 

“I just want the family back together,” Boomer wept, like she could read Franky’s mind or something, but they were on parallel tracks. “I just want everything back the way that it was.”

Yeah, me too, Franky thought sadly as her eyes welled with tears. She wanted her life back. 

In front of her, Boomer began to sob. Franky affectionately scratched her hip to comfort her.

“We’re still mates,” she whispered. 

Boomer’s pinkie finger sought out Franky’s as Boomer wept and Franky fought back tears. Franky smiled sadly at her as their fingers linked; the unbreakable friendship wasn’t broken. How could it be? Franky needn’t have worried, and Boomer shouldn’t be crying about it!

“Ahh!” Franky growled playfully. She knew how to cheer her buddy up. “Give us a hug, you douchebag.” She climbed on top of Boomer and started kissing her cheek. “You big sook!”

“Stop it,” Boomer whined, but Franky was having none of that. She leant her cheek against Boomer’s clammy, red face and rocked with her from side to side, sprawled on top of her.

“You’ve gone soft on me,” she said. She wrapped one learn arm around Boomer’s broad waist and squeezed one of Boomer’s large, soft hands. Franky then rocked them on the bed. “Just dance with me,” Franky whispered in a soothing, gentle voice. “Just dance with me.” 

They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, but Boomer cracked it first. Franky felt so happy to be with her, just living in the moment, and her heart didn’t feel so broken even though Franky knew that it still was. Maybe it was okay just to be okay sometimes too, if she had Booms.

Boomer soon rolled onto her back as well as she could, with Franky still lying on top of her. 

“I fucking missed you,” she said, giggling and weeping as she looked up into Franky’s eyes.

“I fucking missed you,” Franky told her more definitively. She dropped her face and pressed a kind, noisy kiss to Boomer’s cheek, as they gripped each other tightly and grinned and groaned. “I’m sorry,” Franky whispered to her when they calmed down. “And thank you.”


	16. Bridget

“Vera wants to see you,” Will said as soon as Bridget arrived back at her office after stepping out for a proper lunch break. He had been waiting for her to return, that could not be good. 

“Oh?” she asked. She thought first of how the women fared over her ninety minute absence. A lock down, a drug overdose, a suicide attempt? “Did something happen while I was gone?”

“No, no trouble,” Will said. He followed her into the office and looked at her seriously. “I think the Governor knows you saw one of the women in here last night, after hours.”

“No, Will,” Bridget said as her heart ached. She shook and she put her hands on her hips to steady herself. She had barely slept. She looked into his eyes with a disappointed expression, even though she had no right to feel that way towards him. He held his hands up in surrender. 

“Wasn’t me,” he said. 

“Nothing happened.”

“Yeah I could tell,” he said. He smirked affectionately at her. “Cos you were standing so far apart when I came in, see.” 

Bridget softened as they watched each other, and tears filled her tired eyes. This day was not going to end well, she could feel it. Will seemed to know it as well as he continued to smile. 

“You better go and grovel to the Governor,” he said. “Franky’s okay, Bridget. She had a rough night if no one’s told ya yet, but she’s up and about, she’s quiet, got her head down.”

Bridget nodded, satisfied with that report. Once Will left her alone she made a quick call to Vera’s office to see if she was available. The order was to come straight up, so Bridget did. 

And Vera did not look impressed when Bridget walked through her office door. She looked positively pissed as she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her buttoned blazer.

“I’m sorry,” Bridget said immediately. She could hardly stop herself smiling because what the fuck had Vera expected her to do? She had given her permission. Vera knew all about this relationship and had for months. All Bridget could do was state the obvious; words she had already said to Vera in the privacy of her own home over a cheese plate and a bottle of wine, while Franky had stood in her kitchen and cooked dinner for them all, no less. “I…I had to see her,” Bridget said. She threw her arms out by her sides and raised them. “I love her.”

There, she said it. She had said the words out loud, at work, to the Governor, and there was absolutely nothing either of them could do about it. It was what it was. 

“What happened to being discreet?” Vera asked. 

“It looked like a normal appointment,” Bridget assured her with a shake of her head. Seeing Franky in her office had to be far more discreet than cornering her in a staircase where a dozen inmates could pass them by as they talked, all while they thoroughly resisted the urge to touch each other. An office appointment was normal, expected, most women didn’t care.

“After hours,” Vera pointed out, even though Bridget saw women after hours all the time if they were struggling. “If people put two and two together it will cost you your career-” 

Okay, that was a fair enough reminder, Bridget thought. She was well aware of the risks. 

“-especially now Franky’s DNA has been found under Pennisi’s fingernails and on the gun.”

“What?” Bridget asked in a shocked, high-pitched voice as she took an urgent step forward. 

Vera rolled her eyes, like she wasn’t surprised at all that Franky never told Bridget as much.

Bridget’s heart raced and her full stomach flip-flopped painfully. Lunch was the most she had eaten in days. Her eyes went wide as a hand rose to cover her mouth. She took a deep breath to help process, and looked out of Vera’s office window. There was a breeze that afternoon, and Bridget realised then that Franky might not ever get to feel a breeze like that again. 

“Oh Franky,” she whispered into her fingers. DNA. Positive DNA results were so hard to defeat in court. The police would never believe anyone else to be responsible now. Why hadn’t she said anything? Why was her skin under his fingernails? What had he done to her?

Bridget thought back and tried to remember if she had seen any scratches on Franky’s body. They’d had sex the night Franky burned the photographs but they kept the lights off that time and it was dark, and they hadn’t made love again, that was the last time. Franky hadn’t been in pain, she hadn’t complained of any scratches, and Bridget couldn’t remember seeing any antiseptic ointment lying around or bandaid wrappers in the trash she had gone through, but if her skin was under his fingernails he had touched her somehow. Enough to hurt her, maybe.

The panic attack, Bridget thought. She’d thought it was stress and exhaustion at the time, a minute ago she would have added that it was because Mike was harassing her and she was scared, but now it took on another kind of meaning. Franky had been in shock that night. The shaking and the clammy skin and the unwillingness to speak over dinner made sense now too. There had been a physical fight that day, and Franky had brought herself home afterwards and she hadn’t said a word. She had worked herself into a panic to the point where she could barely breathe, she had fallen asleep in Bridget’s arms after scaring the shit out of Bridget in the middle of the night with it all, all without telling the truth, even after Bridget asked her.

“Oh Bridget,” Vera said in a more sympathetic voice. “I am trying to help you.”

“Okay,” Bridget said as she thought about what to do next. She held her chin and considered what Will had told her earlier; Franky had a rough night. Bridget thought that could be an understatement, because the previous evening, Franky had been taken straight from Bridget’s arms and put into an interrogation room where the police would have laid all of that DNA evidence before her. And if Franky hadn’t told Bridget about having touched the gun, which she obviously had because DNA didn’t lie, then she wouldn’t have told the police that either. 

She was so unbelievable screwed, they both were, and Bridget was gutted. 

“I think it best you stay away from Franky all together,” Vera said. 

Vera would say that, and Bridget just nodded. She went looking for Franky as soon as she left Vera’s office, and if Vera didn’t realise that Bridget was going to do that, then she was a fool. 

“Franky!” Bridget hissed as she caught sight of her girlfriend’s familiar ochre sweater and chased her down the stairs towards the phones and storage cages. Franky was on her way to the showers, she was carrying a towel and a clear bag of toiletries, and she was alone. “Hey, Franky,” Bridget said again once Franky looked over her shoulder and slowed her stride. Bridget jogged to catch up. She put a hand to Franky’s elbow and guided her towards the cages, away from the main thoroughfare. “You told me it wasn’t your gun,” she whispered. 

Bridget’s mind was still racing with the news that Vera had delivered, Bridget had barely given it any thought, and Franky’s wide green eyes looked both surprised and insistent.

“Yeah, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s Ferguson’s.”

“Then why is your DNA all over it,” Bridget stated. It was not a question, but an accusation. Bridget’s eyes stung with tears as they searched Franky’s face for any lack of sincerity. She found none, as Franky immediately launched into an explanation in a calm, sensible voice.

“It’s messy,” she whispered. “But I took it from her godson before he could kill Jesper, and I dumped it and somehow it’s turned up again.”

Oh good, Bridget thought with droll acceptance, as she battled a laugh and fresh tears, and as she looked around to confirm that they were still alone. Great, babe, that made perfect sense. 

“You know how unbelievable it all sounds, right?” Bridget asked in a choked, emotional voice as she half-smiled and tried to remind Franky how serious this was. “How crazy?”

“Yeah, I know but it’s true,” Franky said. 

She looked so fucking sincere. Bridget didn’t doubt her for a second but she was devastated to be finding out about this now. She should have known it all days ago, as soon as it happened. Franky always said she had wanted an equal partner, and now she had one, and this was how she treated her? Bridget thought they shared everything. She had opened herself up too, in ways that she hadn’t with other women. She had taken risks and it had been hard for her as well. Franky had thrown all of that trust and openness back into her face. Why?

“Franky, you lied to me,” Bridget whispered. 

“No, I didn’t.”

There was a slightly defensive edge to her oh-so-innocent tone that Bridget wouldn’t tolerate.

“Yeah, you’ve hidden things from me and it’s the same thing,” she explained quickly in a shaking voice. Don’t cry, she told herself. Bridget Westfall, do not cry at work. She lifted wet, sad eyes back up to look into Franky’s gentle, reassuring but innocently stubborn expression. “Why would you do that?” Bridget asked, hopeful of a decent answer.

“Cos I was trying to protect ya,” Franky said in earnest. “I didn’t want you to lose your job.”

Bridget was so fucking sick of everyone warning her that she could lose her job over this woman. Her parents, Vera, Franky; didn’t they realise she had spent enough time making a fully informed decision about this relationship for herself? That was her right. It was nobody else’s right to get involved, it was nobody’s job to always be warning her, and when it came to Franky, yes they protected each other, but on what planet did any sensible person think ‘protecting each other’ involved conversations in the depths of a maximum security prison?

Oh Franky, Bridget thought. She knew better than anyone how well Bridget could speak for and defend herself, Bridget didn’t need protecting, and withholding critical information never helped anyone. For such a clever, well-meaning woman Franky could be so fucking naïve. 

“Well that’s not how it looks to everyone,” Bridget said. 

Franky’s nose crinkled and her brow rose in disbelief, as she heard Bridget suggest she had lied to cover up the fact she murdered Mike. That was her defensive ego reacting, because that was exactly how it looked to the police, to Will, to Vera. It was all a jury would need.

“Everyone?” Franky asked on a whisper, prepared to ignore the beliefs of twelve faceless strangers for now, as she and Bridget bent their heads together by the storage cage. “Really? So is that what you think? Huh?” Franky looked into Bridget’s eyes to ask her that question. Franky’s green eyes were shining with tears as she stared at Bridget and whispered, rushed, “Or is this Pearce speaking? Cos he doesn’t believe me and that’s why I sacked him.”

What? Bridget thought. No one had told her that in twenty-four hours either. Fuck, Franky!

“He was trying to help you, Franky!” Bridget hissed. She wept without any tears actually falling. She would not cry, but her heart was aching and her mind at this point could not see a way forward for them, not with a guilty verdict for murder. “We’re all trying to help you.”

Couldn’t Franky see that? Bridget went home every night to an empty home without her. The previous night after seeing Franky in her office she had gone home and done their washing. She had put all of Franky’s clothes from the previous week into the machine and then the dryer, she had taken everything out again, all her bras and undies, and she had sorted through them to work out what Franky might like to have. Clean, fresh clothes that Bridget could bring. 

It didn’t sound like a lot but it meant a hell of a lot to Bridget, and she had sat on their bed and cried, and she had laid down on their bed and cried, and she had fallen asleep holding onto one of Franky’s shirts as though Franky was dead, even though she was alive and Bridget had just held her. Did Franky not understand that? That every night when Bridget went home, Franky no longer felt real to her? The only way Bridget could make her feel real was by focusing on getting her out, on helping her. If Franky couldn’t accept that, then what?

Franky just stared at her with wide, assuming eyes as she spoke. 

“So I’m a liar, and a murderer, is that it? Is that what you think?”

The urgent look on Franky’s face and in her eyes was not her sincere ‘please believe me’ face, it was her ‘how could you not believe me’ face. Bridget didn’t want to see it and looked away in a huff. Franky had no right whatsoever to feel slighted by Bridget or by this gut-wrenching conversation. It was Bridget’s pain and her fears that needed acknowledging now. Franky had betrayed her and it hurt, she was hurting and she felt sick and alone and she was scared. Even with all the empathy inside her, Franky didn’t seem to get it. Bridget hated that.

Tears filled her eyes and Bridget knew she had to walk away, otherwise she would cry. Not just a few tears, but full-on bawling that she’d always thought was beyond her at forty-six. It wasn’t, and if she cried, regardless of the fact they had just had a big argument, Franky would move immediately to hug her, to hush her. She might start crying too and she would hold on tight because that’s what she always did. Guards might need to separate them and Franky would resist. It would not be what Vera had in mind when she directed Bridget to be discreet.

Before she left, Bridget had to try to make her understand. 

“I have risked everything for you, why couldn’t you trust me?” she asked. That was it, that was all she had ever asked of Franky, ever since the first day they met and Bridget had looked into Franky’s eyes and asked, ‘You got a problem?’ Trust me, she had said. Trust me.

And maybe Franky didn’t trust her. Just maybe…she never had. 

Bridget turned and walked away without giving Franky the right of reply. She strode quickly back to her office with her head down, without being interrupted, and shut the door and blinds. She collapsed into one of her upholstered counselling chairs, buried her face into the arm of her black blazer, and cried as quietly as she could. She had to let this go, she could not walk around for the rest of the day with all of this bottled up inside her; she wouldn’t cope. 

The sick, twisted thing was, that to calm herself down as her tears subsided, Bridget imagined Franky crouched in front of her. Franky leant over her, combed fingers through her hair and slowly rubbed her back. She hushed Bridget with soothing whispers, like, ‘It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe. Shh.’ It worked. As angry and hurt as Bridget was, it still fucking worked. 

Fuck you, Franky Doyle, Bridget thought with a stunted laugh. She was mad at her, dammit.

Bridget lifted her head from her arm and wiped her fingers over hot, damp cheeks that were probably bright red by now, and all her makeup would be ruined. She had cleansing wipes and a bit of makeup in her bag that she could re-apply, so that would be okay, and she wouldn’t cry for the rest of the day. If anyone commented that she looked tired, well, that was true, and if anyone asked her if she was okay she would just tell them she was tired. Simple.

What wasn’t so simple was what she still felt for the woman she had just turned her back on. 

What if Franky was convicted and sentenced to life in jail? What would that mean for their relationship? Bridget was eleven years older than her. She would grow older alone, she might even die alone, long before Franky. They had no children to keep them together. Would a hug at each supervised visit and the odd conjugal ever be enough to prevent what most people would assume to be the inevitable dwindling of their relationship, even despite their love? 

Because I do love her, Bridget thought. She just didn’t know if it would be enough to push them through this. They had already been changed, Franky’s life was irrevocably changed, and Bridget didn’t know how to protect her from that any better than Franky had been trying to do the same for her. They were both fucking hopeless, Bridget decided. They were fucked.


	17. Franky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing on the fly in some regard here, mostly before I see upcoming episodes. It's very likely I'll need to go back at some point and revise some of these chapters, but hope to end up with a complete story at some point! Thanks for dropping by! :-)

Franky watched Bridget walk away and felt all the air being sucked out of her lungs. 

‘I have risked everything for you, why couldn’t you trust me?’

“Oh no,” Franky said on a pained sigh as she turned around and shut her eyes. The look in Bridget’s beautiful, strong blue eyes; Franky had never seen that look before. She was hurt.

I trust you, Gidget, Franky thought, but it was pretty clear that Bridget didn’t believe that.

“Fuck!” she hissed. What if that was it for them? What if this was the deal-breaker? Trust and Bridget went hand-in-hand, she was a fucking shrink, for fuck’s sake! Franky had known for ages that she’d stuffed this up and she didn’t fix it. What if Bridget never spoke to her again? 

Franky looked around in despair at where she was, the concrete depths of Wentworth. She imagined herself there for the rest of her life, until she was a lonely old lady living off faded memories and boasting to the young junkies and ferals of all the times she’d had this hot girl to suck on, only Bridget wasn’t a girl and she was more than a piece of ass to Franky. Old-lady-Franky wouldn’t talk about that, though. Nup, she would make it sound really dirty, and she would save all the love for when she was alone in her cell, hoping she died in her sleep. 

Franky’s eyes had filled with tears, but they soon fell on the phones on the wall directly behind her. She got an idea. She couldn’t let Bridget walk away like that, she just couldn’t. 

Franky secured her towel and toiletries over her arm and went straight to one of the phones. She just wanted to leave Bridget a message, so she dialled her mobile number knowing that Bridget wouldn’t answer it. As she listened to it ring and waited for Bridget’s voicemail to pick up, Franky tried to think about what she wanted to say. She didn’t even know half of it.

“Bridget Westfall.”

It took Franky a full second to realise that this was not Bridget’s voicemail, but Bridget herself. How long had Franky been standing there scripting her deadbeat future? Fuck, time!

“Hello?” 

And shit, it hurt that Bridget sounded fragile. Her voice was shaking and Franky knew she would be in her office, standing over her open desk drawer, the big one where she kept her handbag during the day. Franky didn’t understand what she was doing in there – looking for tissues, maybe? – or why she had answered her phone when she was obviously still so upset.

“I didn’t think you’d answer, I was just gonna leave a message,” Franky said. She rolled her eyes and huffed at her own inability to even say, ‘It’s me and I’m sorry’, to begin with. 

There was a long pause over the phone and Franky imagined that Bridget was thinking about whether or not to hang up on her. Franky probably deserved it, but Bridget wasn’t vindictive.

“Gidget?” Franky asked in a whisper, just in case anyone was listening.

“Where are you?” Bridget asked urgently. She surely had the same idea. No names was best.

“About four metres from where I was a few minutes ago,” Franky said. “Baby, please-”

“Don’t call me that,” Bridget snapped on a quick intake of breath. “Leave your message.”

“What?” Franky asked. 

“You said you wanted to leave a message. Tell me what you want to say.”

“Okay,” Franky whispered as her heart thudded in her chest. 

Don’t fuck this up, she told herself. Do not fuck this up, Franky Doyle. You need her. 

“Please don’t hang up when you get this message,” she began. She laughed through the tears in her eyes when she heard Bridget trying not to laugh as well. 

Bridget was definitely already crying though. Franky could hear her sobbing on each breath on the other end of the phone and Franky knew it was all her fault. She was so fucking sorry. 

“You have no idea how much I appreciate you,” Franky continued as calmly as she could; a skill she’d learned from Bridget, as if Bridge hadn’t seen that in her already. “You have given me so much strength and hope and love. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the godson and the gun, and the way Mike attacked me that day I had that awful panic attack in bed beside you, and we both ended up on the floor cos I’m pathetic and can’t even breathe right sometimes, let alone find the right words to say everything I wanna say, and everything I feel. I trust you with my life, and I never meant to deceive you, I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you like this.”

“Franky-”

“Shh. I know you’re really scared,” Franky continued. “I’m scared too. I’m scared I fucked everything up and you’ll hate me for fucking it up, and I don’t wanna lose you. But-” Franky hesitated and sucked in a deep breath, for bravery. “I know that’s really fucking selfish,” she added. “I know I gotta take a step back and look at the bigger picture, and if you want this to stop, you tell me, because it’s not fair on you to be stuck with me if you don’t wanna be.”

“Darling,” Bridget said, cutting her off. Franky’s heart leapt in her chest, until Bridget’s next words. “He attacked you?”

Fuck, no one told her that yet either?

“Yeah,” Franky said as she winced. “In my car. I went to his house cos I’m an idiot and cos he was threatening you and me, and I wanted to try to reason with him. Didn’t work, obvs.”

“In your car?” Bridget asked. 

“Yeah,” Franky said. “Why?”

“The police haven’t come looking for it,” Bridget said. “His DNA would be all over that car.”

“Yeah but it’s not the crime scene though. His prints would be on the boot, where he slapped it, but all it proves is I was with him, I’m still fucked.” She took a deep breath, pinched her nose and said again, “And I’m really sorry I didn’t tell ya. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“I am hurt, baby. My heart is broken.”

“I know, I can hear it in your voice,” Franky assured her gently. “And I saw it, just now. I better go have a shower, but I just…didn’t want you to go home without me, thinking that I didn’t love ya, or that I don’t love you enough, because holy fuck, I do. I do, Bridget.”

“Shh,” Bridget hushed over the phone in direct response to Franky saying her name aloud. “I know you do,” she said in a whisper. “You go, have a shower, be safe. We’ll talk again, I just need some time, yeah? I need to think about where we go from here.”

“I get that,” Franky said. “Thanks for letting me leave a message, you’re a good answering machine. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Bridget said before she hung up. 

Franky sighed and returned the phone’s receiver to the wall with a clatter. Okay, so she had just offered Bridget the ‘no-strings, get out of Franky’ card, and she had no idea what Bridget would do with it, if at the end of the day Franky even gave her the chance. That terrified her. 

It had been necessary though. She’d needed to make that clear. They were not married, they didn’t have kids or common property, and Bridget had a good job at Wentworth that she loved. All Franky was going to do if they stayed together was drag Bridget down with her. It was like a see-saw, and for nearly two years Bridget had lifted her up. Not anymore.

Franky walked into the showers and forced a polite smile to her face as a couple of the bare naked ladies already there said, “Hey Franky”, or “S’up, Franky?” 

“Nummuch bitches,” Franky said. “S’up with you?”

“Nothin’.”

Yeah, no shit, cos we’re in jail, Franky thought as she stripped and got all her soaps in order. 

She flashed her fierce green eyes around the room. 

“No one better touch my fucking stuff, okay?” she asked, as though it wasn’t a direct threat. Half a dozen hands went up in surrender and a few of the women snorted, amused. Franky got into the shower and turned the hot water on full blast. She was grateful that even as someone who was on remand, the Top Dog shine hadn’t worn off. No one dared touch her. 

‘Be safe,’ Bridget had said. 

For now, Franky was. She just had to try to work out what happened next, and it was so hard to think when these bitches in the showers with her were making so much fucking noise. 

Franky resisted the urge to lose her temper. That was the old Franky. There was no point shouting at them to shut the fuck up, they wouldn’t, and then what was Franky gonna do, huh? Bash a few heads together? She wouldn’t give Vera the satisfaction of slotting her. 

Franky was calm, she was patient, she could take deep breaths and she could handle this. She turned her back on them all and leant against the tiles of the shower. Franky always hated showering with her back turned at Wentworth, but she liked the feeling of the water running down her back and the fact that she could hide her exhausted, confused face from the others. 

If she had been at home, Bridget might have stepped into the shower behind her and started massaging her back. She might have run her hands around Franky’s waist and hips, squeezed her bum and then worked her small, strong hands up around Franky’s tense shoulder-blades towards her neck. Franky would have dropped her head forwards between her shoulders as Bridget might have kissed her back and reached around to hold a heavy breast in each palm. 

Fuck, Franky couldn’t believe she had been so fucking stupid. She’d had everything, everything she ever wanted in her whole life, and she had thrown it all away. She had made mistake after mistake after thoughtless, arrogant, naïve mistake, and now she was trapped. 

Wait, a voice inside her said. No. That wasn’t right. She had to fight. Keep fighting, Franky.

Franky turned around in the shower and shut her eyes. She covered her ears with her hands to quiet everything and everyone else so she could listen to what a part of her was trying to say. 

It wasn’t right, the voice persisted. Mike had been stalking her and Bridget for months, long before Franky ever made a mistake. He had pictures of them going back to before Franky even started working at Legal Relief. He had wanted something to go wrong for Franky as far back as then, probably before Franky even got out of jail the first time. If it hadn’t happened this way, under these circumstances, it might have happened another way. Maybe in that other time and place it would have been worse, maybe Mike would have actually killed them, or just Bridget, or maybe even little Tessa? He might have killed Franky too, but he hadn’t. 

And even if she had gone to the police with the gun straight after Shane held her up with it, even if she had handed it in and explained and they had let her go, if someone at that point in time had been following her with the intention of doing her harm, then they would have always found another way, even if there hadn’t been a gun to collect from that dumpster. 

Franky was always going to have gone down for something, one way or another. She’d made mistakes, but she hadn’t caused this, it wasn’t solely her fault. The worst mistake she had made was with Bridget. She and Bridget were a family and a partnership and Franky should have talked to her about everything. If she ever got another chance to try again, she would do that, always, every detail. And Bridget had just called her ‘darling’ and ‘baby’ on the phone; Franky hoped that was a good sign. It was at least a sign that Bridget still loved her, and in time, Bridget might even trust her and they could be together again. For now, the best Franky could hope for was that Bridget did not fall out of love with her over her time inside.

With that risk partially mitigated – again, for now – Franky had the peace of mind to focus on the rest of her situation. She had to put Bridget to one side, going forwards she could not let herself wallow or become distracted. Someone had it in for her. It was Ferguson, it had to be, she was so fucking smug. Franky wanted to corner her and interrogate her but she knew that wouldn’t work, because even if she was tortured Ferguson would never talk. Whatever, she’d find another way. Franky was going to prove to the world that she did not kill Mike Pennisi. She would succeed no matter the cost, she knew it in the deepest part of her.

After her shower, Franky returned to her room. She thought she knew what she had to do. She didn’t know what Bridget would think about it, or how it would make Bridget feel, but Franky didn’t have a choice, and for her own survival she needed to start making decisions based on what felt right for her. She could apologise for being selfish all she liked, but everything she did from this point onwards would be directed towards one thing. Going home. Once she was out, and home, then she and Bridget could work on their shit together.

Franky spent long, quiet minutes at the sink in her cell, tearing up the magazine photographs that Boomer had thoughtfully ripped and cut out of old periodicals for her. She pinned them to the board in a collage. Franky wasn’t an artist, couldn’t draw to save herself, but she knew exactly what she wanted to make that night, and she knew what she wanted to put inside of it. 

She could not keep hiding her silver necklace between the mattress and the cover sheet, it was too easily found there, and Franky could not risk it being taken. She would not lose it. 

‘I am never taking it off, I love it,’ Franky had said to Bridget, the morning Bridget fastened it around her neck and pressed a loving, birthday smooch to her cheek. They were happy.

The necklace had stayed on for months, as promised, but Franky knew that sometimes in life people just didn’t have a choice about shit. The women weren’t allowed to wear jewellery at Wentworth, and Wentworth was where she was at. Franky folded the necklace carefully into a square of crumpled magazine that she used to complete the kite on the wall. She pinned it strategically into place, careful not to damage the chain or the little red string on the tail. 

It probably wouldn’t stay hidden there forever, eventually Franky would move it again – it was sometimes better to keep moving the little things around – but for now Franky thought it was a good hiding place. She loved the idea of secretly knowing it was a kite within a kite. 

‘It’s a kite,’ she had said to Mike when he asked her in the café what was around her neck. He had probably seen it from afar and in photographs, but never up close. He must have wondered about it, she realised. ‘It means freedom.’ That must have really pissed him off.

Did he feel free, now that he was dead? And Bea, was she free too? Franky hoped so.

Well, this is my freedom, Franky told herself, as she took off her plain clothes and slowly, deliberately, donned the teal tracksuit that had once been such a big part of her identity, even though she had sworn when she walked out of those gates she would never wear it again. 

She had seen it as a symbol of oppression, institutionalisation, a taking of identity, but no one could take her identity away from her. No one could make her into a person she didn’t want to be. She was stronger than that, she was more patient than that. She believed in herself now.

This is my last chance, Franky thought. She’d had so many chances in life, but she would not question whether or not she deserved this one. She did, it was not too late for her. She either got out of this mess, or she never got out. The teal would help her blend in, but the kite would help her remember herself, her goal. It was freedom with Bridget. Franky wanted her home.


	18. Bridget

“Can you take these to H3, they’re for Doyle.”

Bridget’s ears pricked as Will came around the corner of one of Wentworth’s many corridors. He was speaking to Jake ahead of him, but he was speaking about Franky. 

“I’ll take them,” she immediately offered. ‘These’ and ‘them’ was a set of coloured document wallets that Will told her were filled with research for Franky’s case. Franky was thorough. 

“Let’s hope it makes a difference,” Will said, which in itself made all the difference to Bridget. She smiled at him briefly as they backed away from each other. She hoped so too.

Bridget hadn’t seen Franky for a few days. She had decided to give her time to reflect on what had happened between them, and to continue to adjust to being back inside Wentworth. Bridget knew that had been the right thing to do, but since several stressful, sleepless days and nights had passed, she had been considering what the best course of action would be going forwards. At the very least, Bridget was the Wentworth psychologist and Franky was a new inmate – fuck, Bridget couldn’t get around that word any longer – and they should talk.

So as a psychologist, did she wait for Franky to come to her? A part of Bridget thought that would be best, but she also knew that it would not happen, not while they were inside Wentworth. Franky had sounded obsessed with protecting Bridget’s job and with protecting Bridget from Mike and his threats. Bridget still did not know the specifics of what Mike had said to her on the phone or in person, but Franky would not have gone to his house to apologise and to reason with him for much less than a serious personal threat. 

If Franky had decided to do whatever it took to protect Bridget on the outside, she was damn well going to do the same at Wentworth. Giving Bridget an ‘out’ on the phone the other day was no great surprise, but Bridget did not for a moment pretend that Franky would allow her to make a decision. Franky had to know what decision Bridget was going to make, she knew it even as she would certainly try to deny it, and if Franky couldn’t handle that, then Franky could cut all ties, immediately and without saying a word. No discussion. No concessions. 

Hell, making it sound like she’d given Bridget the power to decide was her only concession. 

Bridget would not allow Franky to get away with that. She would not allow her partner to simply step back and to make decisions for both of them, out of some misguided belief that she was protecting them. She wasn’t. By tearing them apart, she would only make them more vulnerable. Divide and conquer, that was how Joan Ferguson would see it. She would love it.

Bridget found Franky in her cell, sitting cross-legged on the bed in teal. Bridget had seen her walking around in the teal already, and she had to admit that the first time she saw it, the day after their big argument downstairs, she had found the first staff toilet she could and had thrown up. It had been like looking at someone she had known in the past, but knowing that this was a different person in their place; some kind of body-swap. Yes, that was Franky Doyle, but that was a completely different version of Franky Doyle, and teal did not suit her.

Franky also hadn’t seemed to have embraced it yet, and Bridget thought that was important. Franky was wearing it, but one look at her posture and the way the tracksuit hung off her; she hadn’t looked like that all those years ago, she had never carried herself like that. She was struggling with an invisible burden, and suffering, and Bridget felt no shame in going to her. 

In her cell, Franky was focussed on the open textbooks and a sprawling array of printed reports and single pages stacked amid coloured folders. Court judgements, legislation, journal articles; in addition to being thorough Franky was organised and methodical, and her legal research skills were excellent. She had clearly been sending Will back and forth for ‘research’ for some time, and was deep in thought with a pen poised in her hand, as she scanned a highlighted page of what looked to be legislation. 

The legal definitions of murder and manslaughter, perhaps. 

Franky looked up as Bridget entered the cell. She seemed surprised but they knew each other’s footsteps, and no one else inside Wentworth walked in heels. 

“These are for you,” Bridget said as she looked into Franky’s alert and serious eyes. 

“Thanks,” she said. She stretched an arm out to accept the folders. Her face was stern as she looked at the new files and carefully read the post-it note that Will had attached to the top. 

And yet, Bridget thought as she watched her, Franky also looked emotional, like she was barely holding herself together, like she was forcing herself to be this dedicated, this soon.

Bridget stepped nearer to the bed and looked down at all the hard work this woman was doing to secure her own future. It was heartbreaking that Bridget didn’t think she could fix it. 

“Franky, it’s not that I don’t believe you, I’m just trying to make sense of all of this.” She kept her voice soft and gentle. She was calmer than she had been days beforehand, and she wanted Franky to be able to hear in her voice that she loved her, and wanted to support her.

“Well Ferguson’s behind it, I just need to prove it,” Franky said, rushed and out of time.

“Okay.” Bridget wanted to help slow this down for her, they had to take their time. With her hands on her hips, she tried to stop her voice from shaking. “So how are you gonna do that?”

“Not sitting here talking to you!” Franky snapped. She glared at Bridget with those piercing, stubborn eyes that looked and felt like they could cut through the concrete walls around them. 

You wanna fight me? Let’s fight. That was what those eyes said to Bridget at that moment.

Franky didn’t always like her eyes. As she told it they looked just like her sadistic, abusive mother’s, but boy did she know how to use them to full effect. She always hated herself when she looked back and realised that’s what she had done, or that it was what other people had seen; a version of that evil bitch that Franky didn’t want to be a part of her. Bridget thought Franky’s eyes were beautiful, they could be soft and light and so expressive, and yet her mother was inside of her, and maybe that was something Franky hadn’t come to terms with yet either. It was not something that had come up in conversation since Franky was paroled. 

Bridget left knowing Franky was not in the mood to talk, but Bridget was. She was also just pissed off enough by Franky’s rejection that she decided to try a different tactic. She was going to help this woman no matter what, and it was not some misguided saviour complex like she had talked to Will about days ago, it was just because she loved her. 

I must love her, Bridget acknowledged, because she would not have done what she was about to do for any of the other women. She certainly would never have done it for personal gain. Then again, when it came to Franky it was bloody personal. Bridget could kill for her, maybe.

If Franky thought that Ferguson was behind Mike’s murder, and if Franky wouldn’t talk to Bridget about it, then Bridget was going to talk to Ferguson. 

Bridget prepared herself mentally, after putting the call through requesting to see Joan. She sat at her desk and waited. She took several deep breaths. She really had not been in a one-on-one situation with Ferguson since she was in charge of doing a psych assessment on the woman months earlier. She had wanted to find out why the psychiatrist at the mental health facility had released Ferguson back to the prison, and she had needed to assess Ferguson as Ferguson campaigned to be released into the general population, to walk among the women. 

Ferguson had taunted her defence of Vera.

‘Miss Bennett is an extremely capable Governor,’ Bridget had said at the time.

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ had been the response, swift and smug.

In that same session, Ferguson had also asked Bridget a question that no one ever asked her, and one which Ferguson could not possibly have known the answer to. And yet, she had. 

‘Have you ever been raped?’

Bridget still didn’t know how Ferguson had discovered that about her, she couldn’t work it out. The fact that she had been raped, once, wasn’t something Bridget talked about with the vast majority of people, only a handful of loved ones knew. That night she’d gone home and talked to Franky about it, and neither of them had been able to figure out how Ferguson got that information. When it came to Joan, there was no such thing as her taking ‘a good guess’. 

‘I fucking hate the Freak,’ Franky had said as she comforted Bridget through her own panic.

Bridget had tried not to dwell on it since. Bridget was free, Joan was not, it was all in the past and couldn’t be used to hurt Bridget anymore. Franky knew and loved her, so it didn’t matter.

‘You truly are a cunt,’ Bridget had said to Joan before walking out on the psych assessment.

‘Thank you,’ Ferguson had replied. 

Bridget remembered talking to Vera afterwards, in an attempt to reassure the Governor that she and Ferguson were nothing alike. 

‘Psychopaths have no fear,’ she said. 

Bridget knew that was how she would need to play this next one-on-one meeting, with no fear. Bridget knew she was strong enough to look Ferguson in the eyes and smile, and that nothing Ferguson said could truly hurt her. Franky still held far more power in that regard.

A clear demonstration of fearlessness had always been the obvious strategy to combat Ferguson’s deluded arrogance, and Bridget could have used it to continue counselling her over the months, and yet Bridget had rarely been alone with her since. The relationship with Franky had forced her to embrace a vulnerability that Bridget often kept well-concealed both at home and at work. Franky had changed that, and Franky had made her promise. Franky had insisted on multiple occasions that Ferguson would use their relationship to hurt her. Her greatest fear was that something would happen to Bridget at Wentworth, and because Franky had been paroled she wouldn’t be able to stop it, and one day Bridget wouldn’t come home. Bridget had acquiesced, and quite frankly, Bridget didn’t mind never speaking to Joan again.

Well Franky, she thought as she waited, thanks to you I’m feeling reckless, and I am fearless. 

“Ah, you’re late, I can only give you five minutes,” Bridget said to Ferguson as soon as she walked in, dressed in the teal tracksuit that marked her as an inmate. Bridget had called the meeting, but she wanted Ferguson to know that she had the power, and unlike their last meeting she intended to keep it and to control this conversation from the very beginning. 

“I’m sure that will be long enough for both of us,” Ferguson said as she sat in a chair. 

Bridget remained at her desk. It felt safer to sit there, it also gave her an air of authority.

“So how are you settling back in?” Bridget asked. 

“I never settle, Miss Westfall. In this instance I may have been outplayed, but, you know, it’s a long game.”

“Between you and who exactly?” Bridget asked. She thought of Franky, but also of Vera, the former Deputy Governor who had taken the higher job Joan still believed she was entitled to.

“Tell me, how’s Franky coping?” Ferguson asked. 

“I’m not discussing other inmates,” Bridget said. Her eyes wandered briefly from Joan’s, she pressed her lips together in a polite smile and tucked her hair behind an ear. She didn’t realise she’d done any of it until Ferguson slowly and deliberately mirrored her when she replied. 

“Must be quite a shock to the system,” she said in a soft, menacing voice full of assumption. “Still, emotional attachment always comes at a price.”

“And what would you know about emotional attachment?” Bridget asked. Fucking nothing, was the answer. Ferguson was incapable of forming a genuine emotional attachment. She had come close to love once, with a young inmate at another prison, back when Ferguson had been but a lowly screw. Yet Bridget doubted that had been genuine; an emotion more desired than real, more frightening to Ferguson than anything else, because she couldn’t connect to it.

“Has she told her you conspiracy theory?” Ferguson asked, still focused on Franky. “She thinks I’m responsible for bringing her back into Wentworth.”

“That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it,” Bridget said with an empathetic frown. 

“Franky’s always had a vivid imagination,” Ferguson whispered. 

“And she’s highly intuitive,” Bridget reminded her. Franky’s imagination generally extended to the worst case scenario of whatever the problem was, but she was a problem-solver, and not necessarily creative. She was a vivid dreamer, but her dreams were not abstract follies.

“I hope that Vera is supporting you through this trying time,” Ferguson continued in a steady, unfeeling voice. “You know a good Governor protects her staff, forgives her indiscretions.”

“Okay I think we’re done here,” Bridget said. She’d had enough, she wasn’t going to get any new information out of Ferguson. Bridget had heard all this before and she knew better than to let a conversation with Joan Ferguson linger or drift. Or worse, repeat. “Officer Stewart!”

“You know I feel for you, Miss Westfall,” Ferguson said, perhaps sensing she had limited time. “Franky’s right in front of you and she’s just a million miles away.” She stretched an arm out in a slow demonstration of Bridget’s inability to touch her. 

Bridget watched her but held tightly to the memory of touching Franky in that very office days earlier; hugging her, kissing her, holding her hands. Ferguson didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.

“If it’s any consolation, I think Franky’s struggling too,” Ferguson continued. “The pain and the rage just simmering beneath the surface.” She raised her hands to her chest, palms-down, and shook them in a sinister trembling that matched the low timbre of her voice.

Bridget was well aware of Franky’s pain and her anger, she understood its origins and its enduring triggers, but she had never been interested in listening to Ferguson delight in it. 

‘She’s a convicted criminal,’ Ferguson had said of Franky, the first time the two of them had stood together and peered at Franky through the glass panel door to the Slot. ‘She threw a pain of boiling oil in somebody’s face, she is a drug dealer and a violent delinquent. She is beyond help.’

Bridget had not believed it then, and she certainly did not believe it now. 

“I’m busy Joan,” Bridget said when the door opened and Officer Stewart came to collect her. It was Bridget’s turn to pretend as though this conversation was an insignificant moment in her day, and she would not allow Ferguson to leave thinking she had made an impact. She hadn’t. “Find somewhere else to workshop your monologues,” Bridget told her.

Ferguson stood to leave, but could not help leaning over Bridget’s desk as she passed, to look into her eyes and to speak once more in that low, subtle tone that she had used so effectively to manipulate some of the most vulnerable women in the prison population, as a Governor and now as an inmate. Bridget stared into her eyes with a pointed, guarded expression.

“Don’t you worry, Miss Westfall,” Ferguson said. “I’m sure your secret’s safe with Vera.”

I’m sure it is, actually, Bridget thought as she nodded slightly, and as Ferguson left. Bridget sat back in her chair and replayed the conversation in her head. It was nothing new. Ferguson was still going on about Bridget and Franky the same way she had months earlier. Bridget thought that was a big problem, at least as far as Franky’s conspiracy theory was concerned.


	19. Franky

Franky hated telling Bridget to fuck off, but she had so little choice at the moment and she just hoped that Bridget understood that and didn’t hold it against her. Not that she could even bring herself to express that to Bridget in any of their conversations either. She didn’t want to give Bridget false hope, and Bridget seemed to have enough hope left inside her as it was.

She kept finding Franky, running after her, catching up to her. It would have been endearing and just so fucking loving and reassuring if it also wasn’t just that little bit annoying. Every time Franky saw Bridget, she was reminded that she couldn’t go home. Didn’t Bridget understand that? Franky missed her voice and her body, she fucking loved her. Bridget was so fucking distracting, and Franky needed to focus on her one and only goal. Freedom.

Even after Franky accepted the court transcripts from Bridget in her cell with very little thanks – she was a downright rude bitch about it, actually – just hours later Bridget still found her again in the hallway and dragged her into one of the counselling rooms. She could not take a fucking hint, obviously, or she was just as stubborn as Franky, which was also true. 

“Franky, you need to speak to me,” Bridget said. “I just spoke to Ferguson.”

That got Franky’s attention. Bridget and Ferguson didn’t speak, they should not be speaking!

“What’d she say?” Franky asked, still curious. There was no point ripping into Bridget about speaking to Ferguson when Franky knew she was doing a good enough job of ripping into Bridget as it was. Fuck, I’m sorry Gidget, Franky thought when she stood in front of Bridget in the bland, dimly lit counselling room and looked into Bridget’s earnest, inviting eyes. 

“She was trying way too hard to make me suspicious,” Bridget said. “She wants us to think she’s responsible which means she’s probably not.”

“So you still don’t believe me,” Franky said, as she realised what Bridget had done. She had gone to Ferguson to try to cross-check Franky’s story, to try to interrogate the Freak herself.

So fucking stupid, Franky thought. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“No, she’s more interested in us,” Bridget whispered.

“Ferguson’s the only thing that makes sense,” Franky insisted. 

“Franky, listen, Ferguson has worked out that we’re together.”

“If Corrections find out your career’s fucked,” Franky said quickly. This had always been true, but it felt more urgent now. Franky did not want Bridget to lose her job, she did not want to lose Bridget. What would Bridget even do if she couldn’t practise? Had Bridget even spent two seconds thinking about that? What happened if the media got hold of their ‘story’?

“I’m going to hire a private investigator to look into Pennisi, okay?” Bridget asked. She said it, actually. Franky didn’t think it was much of a question.

“No way,” she replied. It wasn’t exactly risk-free and it wasn’t Bridget’s responsibility to do that. She had already tried to hire the most expensive criminal defence attorney in the State, and what good had that done? All hiring a private investigator would achieve, would be to create a discoverable link between Franky and Bridget. Her career would go down the drain. 

“I’m not just going to sit around and do nothing,” Bridget said. 

“It’ll link you to me,” Franky said, even though she tried hard every day not to imagine Bridget at home, sitting, doing nothing, as if they were both rotting away in a fucking jail.

“I don’t care,” Bridget said. “I love you, I’m not going to let you rot in here.”

Fuck, Bridget, Franky thought. Bridget put her voice to Franky’s own thoughts, same word and everything; rot. They were rotting. Franky’s eyes briefly welled with tears until her face quickly hardened. She didn’t cry anymore, not inside Wentworth, and she couldn’t say it back yet. One day Franky would get to go home, and she would walk up to Bridget at their house and tell her that she loved her, and she just hoped by then that it wasn’t too late. 

Besides, Bridget knew. She knew that Franky loved her, and looking into Bridget’s eyes it was clear to see that Bridget knew exactly what Franky was doing when Franky next spoke.

“Until I get out of here, Gidge, I don’t want to see or hear from you anymore, okay? Just stay away.”

Franky walked away hoping Bridget listened to her now. If Bridget wasn’t going to take the option of walking away which Franky had given her – and clearly she had thought about it for a few days and she wasn’t budging, because Franky had now seen her twice in one day – then Franky was going to have to pull away herself, or push. She really did not want to push. 

But again, that was a major fucking distraction, because Franky needed to prepare for her meeting with her new lawyer. Imogen had contacted Wentworth asking to meet with Franky as her lawyer, and when Franky got that message she had been so fucking stunned and delighted. Franky hadn’t called them. She had been thinking about it, but had also been set on the idea that when push came to shove she was going to have to defend herself in court. 

When she got to the private meeting room for visitors later that day, Franky could not help the big smile of relief that flooded her face the moment she walked in and saw Imogen-fucking-Fessler waiting for her. Imogen was older, in her fifties, and she was the most experienced barrister at Legal Relief. Franky had so much time and respect for the woman, and Imogen had invested time and respect in Franky. Franky hoped that Imogen believed her. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Imogen said when they said hello and Franky sat down. “Though a phone call to let us know you were doing okay would have been nice, Franky. I heard you sacked your last lawyer. Marcus Pearce? He must have really pissed you off.”

“Have you met him?” Franky asked with a wry smirk and a smug lift of her brow. Imogen chuckled and nodded, and Franky bit her bottom lip and grinned shyly at her. This was good, she thought. She felt really good about Imogen being there, prepared to help her, to trust her. 

“I’m disappointed I had to hear about all this from your partner,” Imogen then said. “She’d already gone to see Miles, to let him know you’d been transferred in here and you were doing all right. Then I get a call from her too, telling me you’ve sacked Pearce and suggesting you might be in the market for some legal relief of your own?”

“Bridget called you?” Franky asked with a start, as her eyes went wide. Imogen pressed her lips together in a knowing smile and nodded. Fuck, Franky thought, of course she had. 

“She cares about you,” Imogen said. “Especially given what she’s prepared to risk.”

Fuck, Fessler knew who Bridget was! Franky’s eyes grew wet and worried and she sucked in a deep breath. Imogen could report Bridget to the Psychology Board, Miles could report her; what the fuck had she thought she was doing, going to Legal Relief on Franky’s behalf?

Protecting you, you idiot, she told herself. They were were as bad as each other, truly. 

When Imogen asked Franky to calmly tell her the story, the whole truth of this fucked up situation from beginning to end, Franky obliged. She just needed someone to believe her. Imogen didn’t quite believe her, until Franky explained how her DNA got on that gun.

“I took it off Shane Butler, Ferguson’s godson.”

Shane, the foster kid that Imogen had warned her not to get attached to, not to try to save. Imogen leant back as she recalled the name, but she hadn’t ever known the link to Ferguson.

“What’s Shane doing with the handgun?” she asked.

“Well it belonged to Ferguson. She wanted him to use it on Nils Jesper.”

“Oh God, they’re still looking for the gunman,” Imogen said to Franky in an urgent hiss.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t Shane,” Franky insisted. “I talked him down and I threw it in a dumpster. Ferguson must’ve had someone follow me and pick it up.” 

Shane had gone by then, he didn’t kill Pennisi, Franky added once Imogen asked where he had been all this time, and why Franky had never told her any of this. Franky hadn’t wanted Shane to get arrested for firearms possession. It meant jail for the kid, and he wasn’t a killer. 

To her credit, Imogen did seem to understand. She knew Shane and Franky had a close bond, and Franky was glad that they were talking, she was glad that Imogen was engaged and clearly thinking as quickly as Franky about what the fuck they were both going to do now. 

“You need a defence,” Imogen said. “And this boy is the only hope you’ve got.” The alternative, she reminded Franky, was much worse for her. “You might be stuck in here for the rest of your life.”

Franky had seen that future play out before her eyes just days earlier, and she had seen what it had done to Bea as well. Bea became a lifer after killing Brayden Holt, she lost all hope of release, and it destroyed her. Bea was dead because of this idea that she had been stuck in Wentworth for the rest of her life, and because she thought she lost the one person who meant the world to her, the one person who had been able to give her hope – Allie. Franky did not want to imagine that ending for herself. She did not want Bridget to suffer like Allie either. 

*

Straight after meeting with Imogen, Franky arranged a visit for the following day with Shane, and the next morning she saw disappointment all over his face when she walked in wearing teal. Yeah, I’m an inmate now, she told him as she met his sad eyes with her own. She hated that though, she would not let herself forget that she hated it. She wouldn’t even pull her hoodie onto her shoulders properly, lest she or anyone else got the idea that she was proud to be dressed that way. So it hung there, awkwardly wrapping her up as she and Shane hugged. 

Franky hated what she was about to do to Shane as well. She was about to ask him to flip his world upside down, for her. He was just a kid, it wasn’t his fault his godmother was the Freak, and fuck, Franky kind of loved him. They trusted each other, that was pretty cool.

“I wish I could do something,” Shane said once they were seated at the table. 

“Yeah, well maybe you can,” Franky said as she leant across the table and looked into his eyes. “I hate to ask this, and there’s absolutely no pressure, but you’re the only person who can tell the police where that gun came from. You can prove it was Ferguson’s.”

“How much would I have to tell them?” Shane asked after hesitating. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, and Franky loved him so fucking much for listening and giving it real thought.

“Everything,” she said reluctantly. “But you won’t have to do it alone, you’d have Fessler, see you’d have representation.” She had cleared all this with Imogen, they’d look after him. 

“I’d get charged with possession,” he said, confirming what they both knew.

“Look, I totally understand if you don’t want to do it,” Franky said. She shrugged and her voice shook as she added, “You know, if I was sitting where you were-”

“If it was you, you would already be at the cop shop, Franky,” Shane said. 

Franky grew serious as she met his eyes. She nodded slightly. Yeah, he was right about that. 

“Hey,” Shane said, as he briefly clasped the fists she had made on the table between them. “I’ll do it, all right?”

“Really?” Franky asked. She almost didn’t recognise her voice. It was much softer, more hopeful, and more human than she thought she had sounded in days. It was her outside voice, she missed it. Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her lips together in a grateful, muted smile. 

Now Franky had lawyers, and a good young mate on the outside who was going to sacrifice a part of himself to help her. He was taking a big risk on his own future, but Franky promised herself that she would fight for him and protect him, and so would Legal Relief. These people were her family, that fragile family she hadn’t been sure would stick by her. Here they were. 

*

Franky was in a pretty good mood when she headed into the dining room for lunch. Allie, Boomer and Doreen were all lining up at the buffet with their plates, and Franky walked right to them. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait at the back of the line, and sure enough Boomer came through for her. 

“Hey, Franky, come in front of me,” she said. 

Franky had been avoiding her old prison family for the past few days. She had needed time to herself and had been focussed on her legal research, on planning her defence, and of course she had been distracted by her fight with Bridget. Poor Boomer would have been missing her. 

“Thanks Dores,” she said to Doreen when an empty plate was passed across to her. Franky started loading it up with food. She was actually hungry after a productive twenty-four hours, and given the fact she’d barely had an appetite since she ran into Mike in that café, Franky hoped her hunger was a good sign. She needed to be strong, she needed to survive this.

She needed her family to survive. 

“Hey, so like, are you gonna hang out with us?” Boomer asked her as they stood side by side. “Or narr?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Franky told her with her recently rediscovered gentle voice and a small smile. Love you Booms, she thought. 

Boomer’s face split into a grin and Franky glanced down from her rosy cheeks for more food.

“Awesome, that’s really cool, eh,” Boomer said. “Hey, if you don’t want your apple crumble, just give it to me.” 

Franky laughed a bit and grinned, first at Boomer then in the direction of her tray. As if Franky wouldn’t want her own apple crumble! To start with, it was the best fucking dessert on the menu and she had barely eaten in weeks. But equally, as if she wasn’t going to share it with Boomer. Boomer loved apple crumble. Boomer loved a lot of food but she had always coveted extra helpings of crumble from her friends, because it really was the best fucking dessert on the menu. So Boomer could have some of Franky’s, just like she always had. 

“Nothing’s changed, eh?” Franky asked. 

“Nuh,” Boomer said quickly. She sounded far happier about that than Franky felt.

Then again, Franky reconsidered, as she spoke to Allie about Shane, maybe some things were starting to change, and for the better. If Shane explained to the cops how Franky’s DNA got on that gun before she dumped it and it got picked up by Mike or whoever, then that could help to create reasonable doubt in the cops’ minds and in a jury’s, and would increase the chances of charges being dropped or a not guilty finding. She would still probably be stuck on breach of parole, but she had a five year original sentence, and less than two years to go. 

Two years. Franky could manage that, she thought. She just needed to keep Bridget safe in that time, to make sure that Bridget was still around when she got out. Around meant alive. Alive meant away. Away from Franky, and Ferguson, and anyone else who could hurt her.


	20. Bridget

‘Until I get out of here, Gidge, I don’t want to see or hear from you, okay? Just stay away.’

It had been an ineffective attempt by Franky to get her to back off, one that Bridget reflected on as she sat at her desk and researched private investigators on her work computer. 

Bridget knew what Franky was doing, and she knew why. 

Firstly, it was perfectly obvious that Franky was not trying to protect Bridget. Or at least, she wasn’t only trying to protect her. The truth was that Franky might have been constantly citing that as the reason for her decisions, but in pushing Bridget away, Franky was also trying desperately hard to protect herself, both physically and emotionally. The thought that Franky wasn’t even consciously aware of this was enough to make Bridget feel sad and ill. She was going to need to find a way to sit down with Franky and to talk through some of this with her.

Protecting herself physically was one thing, and Bridget was wholly supportive of Franky making decisions to protect her body from physical harm. It was not a good idea to be seen by the women as having special relationships with prison staff, especially when those relationships were also private, in that they did not benefit the women in general. The women weren’t yet aware that Franky had returned to Wentworth having established varying degrees of friendly relationships with Will, Vera, and Bridget, all of which she was now required to hide. However, many would remember the rumours about Franky and Bridget that circled the prison in the lead-up to Franky’s parole, and Vera had been right to warn Bridget about those.

Bridget’s concern about avoiding those rumours restarting had less to do with her own job security and far more to do with Franky becoming a target. She could be beaten, burnt, raped, even killed, but given the allegation of a sexual relationship with the prison psychologist, rape would be the most likely outcome. It was unlikely the order would come from the Top Dog, but it was far more likely to come from Juice and her ‘boys’; the fairly butch gang Juice commanded, of lesbians and physically imposing straight chicks who didn’t mind a bit of gang-banging for a laugh. If Franky was cornered, Bridget wasn’t sure how many inmates would be willing or able to spring to her defence. Franky was fit and fierce but small, and she was as susceptible to a surprise attack as anyone else. It was always a risk. Would Allie step in? Would Boomer? What if the women who still owed Franky something weren’t around?

So okay, if Franky wanted to push Bridget away to try to achieve a sense of personal safety, so be it. The problem was that this was not the reason that Franky kept finding new ways to tell Bridget to fuck off. This was about Franky’s emotional safety, and Bridget’s concerns about that went much deeper. 

Franky could be incredibly isolationist in her approach to problem-solving. She found asking for help difficult and always had, because even as a small child she had never been able to count on other people. She certainly couldn’t count on her mother. For the first ten years of her life, the only somewhat competent adult intent on putting food in her belly and clothes on her body had been her father, but then he vanished as well. Franky had needed to fend for herself after that. She didn’t have friends as a little girl, not in primary school or high school. 

Once Franky was picked up by child protection workers and put in foster homes, it wasn’t as though she ever found that one magic family who loved her like their own, either; she never got that wish. Instead, Franky was bounced around homes and between carers who found her sullen attitude difficult to live with, and they had let her dictate when she wanted to leave by giving in to her outbursts. Not one foster family had stood by her. Each time Franky got stroppy and tested their loyalty, each time she pushed those boundaries as all children and adolescents did – particularly those most in need of love – she found herself alone, rejected. 

She was doing the same fucking thing to Bridget, but Bridget was on to her. Bridget was not a parent, or a teacher, or a social worker or foster carer, and she wasn’t a fucking stranger on the street with whom Franky might have pleaded for help with those big, emotive green eyes. They had all turned their backs but Bridget would not. Bridget would spend the rest of her life making sure that Franky understood that she would not walk away. 

Bridget also wanted to make sure that Franky understood this part of herself, so that she could take time out to process and reflect. It might help her to temper the pain and anger she was feeling, it might help her to soften just enough to let Bridget in, if even for a moment. It also wasn’t fair that Bridget understood this about Franky and Franky might not have yet made the connections on her own. Bridget hated holding that knowledge over her, ultimately she could not keep it from her. This was something they absolutely needed to talk about because it could help them. Franky’s pain and the fact that deep down she believed she was not deserving of love or kindness, and the fact she believed that everyone she loved or trusted always let her down; none of that should matter to her now, not when Bridget had her back. 

And I do, Bridget told her silently as her eyes scanned the private investigator listings. I’ve got your back, baby. 

Bridget had never needed to hire a private investigator before, and she really didn’t know where to begin but there were a few businesses she decided to look into further. She clicked through to the hyperlinked URLs on each listing to bring up half a dozen windows, as all of their websites popped up onto the screen. She would read carefully and would try to assess each business’ reliability as she went. It was little more than a guessing game, and Bridget would need to make a judgement call and then a few actual phone calls to be sure. This was an intuitive, methodical job that Franky was far more naturally suited to, but on this day, for now, it was Bridget who found herself with the hefty responsibility to try this for the team. 

That responsibility terrified her though, because she had already fucked up once. Whoever she hired, it couldn’t backfire as badly as the decision to hire Marcus Pearce, QC, could it? 

Just do it, she told herself. It would work out. Everything was going to work out in the end.

Bridget’s drive was fuelled by one other fact that kept playing over and over in her head. 

Having spoken to Joan, she was almost certain that Ferguson had nothing to do with Mike Pennisi’s murder. Ferguson was far too smug, and her rhetoric, the look in her eyes, and the self-satisfied smirk on her lips hadn’t changed in months. There was nothing new going on there. Ferguson was more than happy to take the credit, as Bridget had already tried to explain to Franky, but Franky didn’t quite get it yet. She had a lot on her mind, it was true, and Bridget was now in a position to see this situation more clearly for them. When it came to Pennisi’s murder, the cops were looking at Franky, and Franky was looking at Ferguson. They were all wrong, and if even Franky was looking in the wrong place, Bridget had to start searching too. Bridget did not care if that pissed Franky off. Eventually, Franky would come to see what Bridget could see, and then maybe they would work together again to fix this shit. 

“Knock-knock,” Will said as he knocked on Bridget’s door and pushed it open. “Got a minute, Bridget?”

“Sure,” Bridget said with a smile. She subtly locked her desktop to hide all of the open windows. “What can I do for you?”

“Just want you to know how Franky’s going today,” he said, after he had stepped into the office and closed the door for privacy. 

Bridget smiled at him and raised her eyebrows hopefully. She wondered if this back-and-forth was annoying for Will. It might have bothered any other guard, but Will didn’t seem to be annoyed by it at all. He knew Franky did not belong at Wentworth as well as anyone, and he respected both Bridget and Franky well enough to demonstrate a little added kindness.

“Is she all right?” she asked. She didn’t tell Will that she had spoken to Franky that morning already, or that Franky was now in the habit of telling her to back off and leave her alone. 

Fat chance, baby, Bridget thought to herself again as she met Will’s brown eyes. 

“She’s got herself some new lawyer,” Will said. “A woman came to see her yesterday, Aboriginal, middle-aged, seemed an okay sort, eh. They were in there for ages, going over the case, making notes, talking. Seemed to go a lot better than the last guy who tried to help.”

“Good,” Bridget said. 

Excellent, she thought. That was Imogen Fessler. Bridget hadn’t met her, but Franky had spent months going on and on about ‘Fessler’ and what a fantastic boss and mentor she had turned out to be, and how much she was loving Legal Relief and the people she worked with. Her joy and enthusiasm had been so innocent and buoyant, her confidence soared in those first few months of full-time work, and that meant Bridget had a deep respect for Imogen. Will’s bare minimum description of the visit was enough to confirm to Bridget that her own conversation with Imogen, and Miles Strathairn before that, had done Franky a lot of good. 

Bridget did not care if Franky never knew she was the one who called them in, but she hoped that if Franky did know, if Imogen had told her, that she wasn’t mad, and that she understood. 

The conviction statistics on defendants who represented themselves were not good. No matter how clever Franky was, no matter how prepared she thought she was, or how capable she thought she was of solving all of her problems on her own, she was not a lawyer, and she could not have gone into a murder trial alone and won. That was just the cold, hard, fact of the matter. On top of that, she never would have been allowed by a judge to defend herself, not on a murder charge. Franky knew it. Imogen had explained that to Bridget on the phone. 

“Had another visitor today too,” Will continued, diverting Bridget’s attention back to the present. “Shane Butler. She asked me to switch him from Ferguson’s list to hers, and I did.”

Bridget’s eyebrows rose sharply. 

“Ferguson’s godson?”

“Yeah, the one and only. The kid came in, they met over the table out in the open, had a chat. It looked pretty intense but like, friendly at the same time. They hugged before sitting down.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t know they knew each other, Bridget.”

“They do,” Bridget said. That was all she was prepared to tell him. That and, “I’m sure Franky’s being careful, Will. I’ll talk to her.” 

After Will left, Bridget turned back to her computer and its screensaver. She pursed her lips in thought, before unlocking the screen to continue. She would go in search of Franky later.

*

That evening Bridget caught up to Franky on another landing, on another staircase. Franky’s hands were buried in the pockets of her teal hoodie and she looked towards Bridget when she noticed her approach. Franky’s hands stayed in her pockets, and they walked on, side by side.

“So why’d you see Shane Butler this morning?” Bridget asked. It was about the gun, it had to be.

“You been checking up on me?” Franky asked. 

“Well you won’t bloody talk to me,” Bridget reminded her. 

“I told you to stay away,” Franky hissed. She strode forwards on longer legs, eager to get Bridget out of her face, but Bridget was not about to let her get away. As if her own persistent temperament and the reasons behind it weren’t obvious by now, Bridget thought, while she also tried to explain it to Franky. Bridget did not care how many times she had to explain this part of herself. She would keep trying, she would find new ways to say it, she would repeat herself over and over until Franky listened and understood and just fucking trusted in her! 

“Hey listen,” Bridget said in a low, serious voice as Franky strode ahead and Bridget hurried to keep up. “I know a lot of people-” Bridget paused as she grabbed Franky’s elbow. Franky spun around to face her. “-have let you down,” Bridget continued. “But I’m not one of them. Now you’ve got to let me help you.” 

She reached for Franky’s elbow again, this time with both hands, but Franky was not letting Bridget get any closer than she was. She shrugged her arm away as they detoured off into a nearby dark and empty hallway. They turned to face each other and Franky stared at Bridget with wide, frustrated eyes. 

“What’s the point?” Franky asked. “We can’t even be seen together, it’s over.”

Oh really? 

Again, Bridget thought she might like a say in all of this. After all, that was what Franky had offered her just days ago. Did none of that matter? Was she not this woman’s equal partner?

“I don’t accept that,” she said with determined, open and earnest eyes. She was not budging. She leant into Franky’s space just enough to cross that line from professional to personal. 

“I don’t give a fuck!” Franky hissed, still wide-eyed and stubborn. And fearful too, Bridget realised, as Franky continued, “If Ferguson sees us and tells the Board you’ll lose your job.”

“Well I’m thinking of telling them anyway,” Bridget said. She seriously was, it didn’t matter. 

Franky’s eyes went wide. She had a look on her face that basically asked Bridget if she had lost her mind. Was Bridget fucking crazy? She wanted to dob herself in to the Board and risk losing her professional licence for good? Over Franky? Clearly it was a ridiculous suggestion.

“That’s fucked!” she insisted. Her urgent voice pitched high, it almost cracked.

“I can’t let Ferguson dictate my future,” Bridget told her, in as firm a voice as she decided was necessary. That part was important. This was Bridget’s life, these were her decisions, and neither Franky nor Ferguson should have the power to arbitrarily declare, ‘it’s over’. 

“No, you can’t give up everything,” Franky insisted. She was pleading with Bridget, she sounded so fucking worried, but she wasn’t hearing anything Bridget was trying to say. 

Tears of frustration at Franky’s lack of comprehension and love for her anyway filled Bridget’s eyes as she stared at Franky. Her own voice did break when she next spoke.

“I don’t care, I’ll just get another bloody job,” she said. “I’ll visit you, and I’ll wait for you.”

“And what if you’re waiting forever?” Franky asked. 

Bridget knew that being stuck inside Wentworth forever and dying inside Wentworth was one of Franky’s greatest fears right now, but Bridget did not want Franky to lose all hope. She could give that hope to her. Bridget would be waiting, she would not walk away.

“Well then, I’ll wait forever,” she said to confirm it. She almost growled the words in an effort to stop tears from falling. It was a terrifying thought, forever, but forever hadn’t been so terrifying two weeks earlier, when they had been home and building a life together. This would be a different life, but it would still be a life, and it could be a life good enough to love.

Franky hesitated as her eyes searched Bridget for any sign that Bridget was going to back down, for any sign that Bridget was exaggerating or lying. She would wait forever? Really?

“Well you’re an idiot!” she said, when Bridget did not flinch. 

That was the best Franky could do? Call her an idiot? Bridget knew she hit a raw nerve. She crossed her arms over her chest and her voice became firm and strong, her sincerity and her loyalty was immovable. She wanted Franky not just to see it or to hear it, but to feel it too.

“Nothing you say will change my mind, Franky.”

She went to go on, but Franky could not handle any more. With an emotional, “Don’t”, she fled. Bridget watched her go, confident she had gotten through. They could talk more later.


	21. Franky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: This chapter depicts domestic violence and is told from one character's point of view.

After her meeting with Imogen that morning, Franky had decided to sort all of her legal research and case notes into different folders. It was better that Imogen had the benefit of the preparation she had done so far, and Franky knew enough of it by heart now anyway. She was bent over her bed with her folders lined up on the mattress, and she was carefully distributing papers into each, when she again heard Bridget’s footsteps on the concrete floors. 

By the time Franky looked up, Bridget was standing in her cell, talking with a hopeful smile.

“Vera’s given the okay for a counselling session,” she said. “Come on, let’s talk in my office.”

Franky did a quick calculation in her head. This was the second time Bridget had visited her cell as many days, and the fourth time in two days that Bridget had sought her out anywhere at Wentworth. For fuck’s sake, Gidget, that’s too much, Franky thought as she stared at her partner. She could not prevent the panic that seized up around her heart and twisted her guts. How did Bridget not understand the word no? Bridget just could not help herself; coming to Franky’s cell whenever it pleased her, running after her in hallways, meeting her on the stairs.

Now she wanted to go back behind closed doors in her office? To what, make out? To fuck?

Franky saw straight into Bridget’s beautifully clear eyes and immediately knew that while Bridget didn’t want to fuck her, not that day anyway, a hug or a bit of hand-holding might not be off the table, as they talked through all the shit that had gone down since their last one-minute-long ‘counselling’ session. Franky still lay in bed at night with her eyes closed and remembered the way Bridget had held her and patted her back, the way she had said, ‘Hold tight baby, hold tight, both of us’. Franky remembered her own desperation when she tipped her head back and pleaded with Bridget, and with any God up there, ‘I want to come home’.

‘I want you to come home,’ Bridget had wept. 

Fuck, Franky couldn’t let herself go to that place inside her anymore. She couldn’t be alone with Bridget in her office, because within minutes she would be a mess, a shell of the person she needed to be while inside Wentworth, huddled on the floor of Bridget’s office sobbing her sad, scared little heart out, while Bridget held her and hushed her and attempted to hold herself together, but of course she would be in tears as well, of course she would be fucking bawling. They couldn’t be like that, their life couldn’t be like that, Bridget deserved better. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, you can’t fix this,” Franky said. She continued packing up.

“Franky, I’m just trying to help,” Bridget said in a smooth, soothing voice. 

“Well why don’t you try believing me?” Franky asked when she turned to face her. After all, Bridget seemed to have become so certain that Ferguson had nothing to do with setting her up for Pennisi, but she had offered Franky no proof of Ferguson’s innocence beyond ‘a feeling’ that the psychopathic ex-Governor of Wentworth was trying too hard to make her suspicious. Of course the Freak was smug and trying to make Bridget suspicious; it was all a mind-fuck!

Not to mention Bridget should not have been talking to Ferguson alone in the first place. That was a promise Bridget had made to Franky, repeatedly, so who was fucking with who, huh?

Franky trusted Bridget’s instincts, she did, because nearly two years earlier Bridget had looked through a locked door at an angry inmate in solitary confinement, and she had seen something that gave her ‘a feeling’ that Franky Doyle was different, Franky Doyle had potential, Franky Doyle could be a calm, patient woman, and Franky Doyle could love her. 

Fuck, all Franky wanted to do was to love her, but they were in a cell in a maximum security prison and it wasn’t right, it didn’t ‘feel’ right. Why couldn’t Bridget feel that instead?

The whole problem that Franky had with Bridget and her feelings, was that if Franky could believe that Bridget had been right about Franky Doyle and her potential, then she had to believe that Bridget was also right about Ferguson not having anything to do with Pennisi. But if that was true then where did that leave Franky? What was left for her to accomplish inside Wentworth if the whole shit-storm had nothing to do with the Freak in the first place? 

Even worse was if Bridget was wrong about Ferguson. If the Freak really had helped to set Franky up and was the reason she was back behind bars, did that mean Bridget had been wrong about Franky Doyle as well? She was a convicted criminal, a violent delinquent.

She deserved to be punished.

Franky either trusted Bridget’s instincts or she didn’t; in a case like this of life in prison versus freedom there could be no in-between, and Franky had to make a choice now. She had to make the choice that would warn Bridget once and for all that Bridget could not just keep walking into Franky’s cell in an otherwise empty unit, expecting to have a friendly chat. 

Franky still thought this fact of life should have been fucking obvious to Bridget. Bridget knew that Franky always had a big problem with her walking around Wentworth unescorted and unarmed, and the fact Franky was back inside made that activity even more high-risk. If the women got the idea that Franky was sucking off – or worse, making love with – the prison shrink in her own cell, some of them might want to take a piece of her for themselves. They could easily set her up, lure her into Franky’s cell and into her unit under the guise of meeting with Franky. Franky would be distracted elsewhere, or overpowered and forced to watch. The women could hold Bridget in there for as long as it took to rape her, to torture her. Franky wouldn’t put it past Juice and her boys, or even Kim and the other sadistic bitches. No one would press the panic button until it was too late, and Franky would lose Bridget forever.

She would never let that happen.

She could not let that ever happen. 

So, Bridget’s instincts were fucked, that was it. Bridget was wrong about Ferguson and she was wrong about Franky, and Franky now had to remind her how high the stakes really were. 

“Or maybe that’s it,” she said to Bridget. “You never really trusted me, I’m just a bit of rough trade.” 

“Franky, you know that’s not true.”

Yeah, I do actually, Franky thought. She wasn’t rough trade. She was educated, poised and well-groomed, full of self-confidence, and Bridget had always trusted her. Fucking always! Franky felt sick to her stomach, and angry at herself for everything, and she was so fucking mad at Bridget for making her go through with this. She had to make Bridget understand, though. They were alone, they were exposed. Oh fuck, Bridget hadn’t given her a choice! 

Franky plastered a hard, unfeeling expression on her face and took a step forward, so that she was standing directly in front of Bridget, just inches from her face. 

“Isn’t it?” she asked, prepared to challenge Bridget’s trust in her, perhaps forever. If it saved Bridget’s life, the life of the only woman Franky ever really loved, then she was fucking going there. “Maybe this is where I belong,” she said. “Behind bars, like a fucking Bad Girl.”

Walk away Bridget, Franky urged with a flash of her fierce eyes. Please, walk the fuck away.

She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Bridget had a heart the size of an actual country and she had an endless amount of patience, especially when it came to Franky and her bullshit. Bridget looked calmly into Franky’s eyes and lifted her hands to lovingly cradle Franky’s face. 

Before she could make contact, Franky used her two hands to angrily shove her away.

“Fuck off!” she muttered. She grunted. 

Franky had forgotten how much effort it took to be angry enough to commit to physical violence when her heart wasn’t in it, when she wasn’t consumed by self-hatred or a hatred of others. Immediately the need to seethe and hiss and fight was tiring and felt unfamiliar, and Franky’s heart begged her to stop. Franky had never pushed Bridget away physically, she had never bruised her or broken skin. They barely argued, for fuck’s sake, and what was she doing now? Committing domestic violence against her partner? Another criminal offence?

Franky was a good person, dammit. She was such a good person and so was Bridget. It wasn’t fair that Franky had to do this just to prove a point, just to get her the fuck away, and it especially wasn’t fair that Franky saw genuine understanding still lingering in Bridget’s forever-on-her-side blue eyes, as Bridget stood against the brick wall of Franky’s cell. 

This isn’t you, Franky, she might as well have said aloud. You’re a good person, Franky. 

Franky glared at her just long enough for the look in Bridget’s eyes to turn cautious. 

“Franky,” Bridget said. The warning tone. Fucking finally!

Franky took a step towards her and pointed a finger up under Bridget’s nose. 

“And maybe that’s what turns you on,” she continued. “I’m a big fucking prison fantasy.”

Bridget lifted a finger and pointed it into Franky’s face as well. She was her equal, after all.

“Don’t you do this,” she said. 

The calm and confident look in Bridget’s eyes as she spoke told Franky that Bridget could see exactly what Franky was doing. Bridget didn’t seem to grasp why, but she knew that Franky was teetering on the edge of a line that she had never crossed, and this was dangerous.

I’ll show you fucking dangerous, Franky thought as she grabbed Bridget’s raised wrist and shoved it down by Bridget’s side. She held herself to full height and stared down her nose at Bridget as they stood chest-to-chest. Bridget simply lifted a solemn face up to meet her gaze. She tilted her head back far enough so she could also look down her nose towards Franky. Bridget made herself as tall as she could, as equal as she could, and she was not afraid. 

Bridget Westfall had never been afraid of Franky Doyle, and she still wasn’t. 

Franky wanted to stop at that point, but she couldn’t, because the only way she could stop was if Bridget got the fucking message and backed the fuck down. Ha. Yet all this only served to confirm to Franky that Bridget’s confidence was her weakness. Franky could not believe that she had fallen in love with the strongest fucking woman on the earth, but so be it.

“Well come on, let’s go,” Franky said in Bridget’s face as she bared her teeth and leant in. “Let’s fuck.” 

Bridget was cornered. Franky’s heart was hammering and she felt the moment when Bridget started to mildly panic. It was the moment Franky grabbed her waist with her right hand and dug her fingers into soft, warm flesh. Franky pressed her face to Bridget’s cheek as Bridget turned her head away, and for the briefest fraction of a second Franky imagined kissing Bridget’s cheek and nuzzling her jaw, well enough to coax Bridget gently from sleep, until she turned her head towards Franky’s and their lips sank together in a satisfied, loving pash. 

Or maybe that was a memory. Fuck. 

“Stop it,” Bridget said, but Franky couldn’t stop it, not by then. She wasn’t done. She hadn’t made her point yet. Bridget wasn’t saying no to her touch, she was still more concerned about Franky’s mental health than her own safety, yeah? Bridget just did not get the fucking point! 

Bridget clasped her forearms to try to push her away, but Franky was taller and stronger than Bridget, just like ninety-nine percent of the women at Wentworth in teal right alongside her.

“Come on, no don’t worry about it, I can handle it,” Franky said against Bridget’s face in a menacingly playful tone. They were the words Bridget might have said, had they sat down like two civilised people to discuss Bridget’s obsessive need to be in Franky’s space and the associated risks to Bridget’s job and her whole fucking life. Bridget would have promised Franky that she could handle these changes in circumstance, she would have told Franky not to worry, but Franky wasn’t in the mood to just accept those assurances. They were bullshit.

You’re in my world now, Gidget, she thought. You prove to me that you can handle this. 

Bridget was barely putting up a fight, and it pissed Franky right off. She wasn’t even trying to meet Franky halfway! Franky didn’t know what the fuck Bridget wanted from her anymore.

“Here, this is what you want, isn’t it, huh?” Franky asked, as she gripped Bridget’s black blouse beneath her jacket and ripped it open with a firm tug. 

Bridget panicked then. Genuine, holy-fuck-I’m-naked-in-a-prison-cell panic. She gasped and softly squealed, “Fuck!” as Franky grasped one of Bridget’s breasts over her black lace bra. 

Bridget struggled up against the wall, but Franky could easily overpower her. She could cover Bridget’s whole, small breast with her palm and long fingers, she squeezed it hard, and she leant in to press her face menacingly close to Bridget’s once more. She breathed her in.

“Just one last time, I know you want it,” Franky said as Bridget fought against her. 

“Fuck you, what are you doing?” Bridget huffed over the top of her goading. She sounded and felt agitated and scared as she looked directly into Franky’s eyes to wait for an answer, but in that steady gaze Franky saw no fear, no pain. Bridget’s blue eyes were full of nothing less than pure bravery. Bridget had been raped once, and Bridget knew that Franky knew it.

Franky only remembered it then. She recalled snippets of that knowledge in fast succession as she allowed Bridget to hold onto her forearms and push her away like the abuser she was. 

Franky remembered Bridget telling her about the rape, confiding in her. She remembered waking up to one of Bridget’s nightmares, and she remembered confessing her own fears to Bridget that it would happen again inside Wentworth when Franky wasn’t there to protect her. She remembered the day Bridget came home from Wentworth and threw up into the toilet after Ferguson looked her in the eyes and smugly asked, ‘Have you ever been raped?’ 

She remembered holding Bridget as she cried, and making love to her to try to ease painful memories, and asking Bridget if she trusted her. ‘I trust you, darling,’ Bridget always said.

What the fuck am I doing, Franky wondered. Bridget had been hurt badly already. Whatever Franky was trying to tell her, it was pointless. She already knew the risks, better than Franky.

“I’m trying to get you off like a fucking crim!” Franky exclaimed. Her own mistakes, her own failures were all she was left with. Anger resurfaced but this time self-hatred was its driving force. Franky was a criminal, an abuser, she was no better than her violent mother. Hell, she was that woman, and Franky hated her. She held her mother’s soul inside her, she saw the world through her mother’s eyes, and she was a violent, twisted bitch. Franky would never be free until she was dead. She just wanted to be dead! She wanted Bridget to end it. 

Just fucking end it, she wished. End this. Now. 

Franky moved to grab Bridget between the legs but Bridget fought her, and she even had the guts and the peace of mind to try to lean in and to kiss Franky, to subdue her with love and patience, but Franky didn’t want that to be the way. That wasn’t going to work this time. 

They struggled until Bridget lost her temper. When Bridget did vigorously defend herself, Franky was pushed several feet away. She stared at Bridget from halfway across her cell and waited. Her heart was racing but she was calm, not violent. She just wanted Bridget to stay away from her now. 

“No, Franky!” Bridget said in a quiet but panicked, angry voice as they parted. “Fuck!” She looked directly into Franky’s eyes as she gathered herself and took a bold step forwards.

Please, no, stay away. Franky tried to speak, only now with two eyes that were nothing like her mother’s, not really. Franky’s eyes felt swollen with tears, and her mother never cried. 

“I know what you’re fucking doing,” Bridget told her, once and for all. “You wanna push me away?” she asked in a serious whisper. Her own eyes were fierce and piercing, her jaw was tense. She was absolutely seething as she proudly declared in triumph, “You fucking failed.”

Franky continued to stare at her, stunned and mute. It hadn’t worked? None of it? Fuck. 

Bridget then leant in and looked into Franky’s eyes – which suddenly felt way too naïve for their own fucking good – with a kind of disappointment that Franky wasn’t sure she had seen from her or anyone. Franky supposed she had never broken anyone’s heart before, until now.

“You wanna hurt me, hmm?” Bridget asked, easily somehow tracking Franky’s thoughts. 

Franky would never be able to understand how Bridget did that. She also had no idea what would happen next, she had barely planned any of this. Would Bridget deny she was hurt? 

No, Franky realised soon enough. Bridget was honest. If she felt something, she said it. 

“Congratulations, baby.” She offered Franky a small, sad smile, and chose to walk away. 

It was exactly the outcome that Franky had been wanting Bridget to accept for days, but in the seconds after her success, as she stood alone in her cell, Franky realised that Bridget’s heart wasn’t the only heart that she had just fractured. She had broken her own as well. 

The tears in Franky’s eyes wanted desperately to fall, and Franky wanted desperately to not become her mother, or the sort of woman her mother had wanted her to be, so she let them come. Franky Doyle did cry. Hot tears trickled hurriedly down her cheeks in fat, salty drops. 

Franky cried quietly. She didn’t want Bridget to hear her and she might still have been close; around the corner perhaps, putting her clothes back together after Franky ripped them apart. 

Franky put her head in her hands when the full force of what had just happened hit her. This was so fucking serious, she had just assaulted Bridget in probably the worst way possible. Franky loved Bridget deeply and yet she had violated her, she had used something very private and painful that she knew about her girlfriend’s past to try to hammer home a point, even if she hadn’t consciously remembered it at the time she made that brutal decision. 

Even worse, Bridget had known exactly what Franky was doing, and she just stood there for most of the time, accepting that Franky was acting out in a panic and a fit of anger. It was because they knew each other so well, Franky thought. They always fit together so fucking well. They knew how to press each other’s buttons, and they felt safe enough with each other to try. Franky had never had that with another person before, she wasn’t sure if she still did. 

Despite Bridget’s insistence that Franky failed in pushing her away, Franky was pretty sure that she had succeeded in her most painful, disappointing quest. Bridget would opt out of Franky’s life now. It was much safer for her to do that, they probably both agreed on it finally, and Franky could focus on getting out of jail. The problem was, when she did get out? Franky was no longer sure that Bridget would be on the other side. Her family was gone.


	22. Bridget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: This chapter depicts domestic violence and is told from one character's point of view.

Bridget went to Franky’s cell that evening to give her the good news. Vera had given her the green light to schedule counselling sessions with Franky. Genuine sessions, Bridget thought.

It was fine that Franky didn’t want to be intimate while she was inside Wentworth, that was absolutely understandable and Bridget did not particularly want that either. Being with Franky was one thing, but sex or any type of physical contact inside Wentworth was entirely another. So no, they wouldn’t go there, but there was still value in sitting in Bridget’s office to talk. Talking in Bridget’s office had helped Franky once before, it could help her again.

“Vera’s given the okay for a counselling session,” Bridget said, as her eyes fell briefly to the bed to look at the evidence of Franky’s conscientiousness. “Come on, let’s talk in my office.”

Franky had been sorting all of the research for her own case into folders on her bed, it looked like she was preparing to hand them over to her new lawyer. Bridget really wanted to know what they were planning, or if there even was a plan at this early stage. She knew there would be a straight not guilty plea and that the prosecution would pursue a charge of murder and not any lesser offences. It meant that if Franky got off, she was free, she could not be retried. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, you can’t fix this,” Franky said when they faced each other. She wasn’t smiling. Bridget missed her big, lovely smile; neither of them had smiled in days. 

“Franky, I’m just trying to help,” Bridget assured her. 

“Well why don’t you try believing me?” Franky asked. “Or maybe that’s it, you never really trusted me, I’m just a bit of rough trade.”

Well, that was bullshit, Bridget thought. Of course Bridget trusted her, she told Franky that constantly. And Franky might have been covered in tattoos, she could certainly throw her meagre weight around and play-act ‘rough’, but she had a gentle heart, and along with her intelligence she was motivated to achieve far more than the other women inside Wentworth. Bridget knew Franky could see that better now, second time around. She didn’t belong there. 

“Franky, you know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Franky asked, as she took a step into Bridget’s personal space. They looked into each other’s eyes and Bridget could see her feigned apathy. “Maybe this is where I belong,” Franky said. “Behind bars like a fucking Bad Girl.” 

The reference to the old British television show about life inside a women’s prison might have been the source of a joke between them, at another time, in another place. This time, Bridget just wanted to reassure Franky that she could drop the tough girl act now, Bridget was there and they could go back to her office to talk, and everything was going to be okay. 

Bridget lifted her hands to cradle Franky’s face. She wanted so much just to touch her again. Franky needed physical comfort for her own sense of wellbeing far more often than she was willing to admit, and it came from not getting any positive touch from her mother as a child. Bridget didn’t hold that against her, it didn’t freak her out or give her any worries about their own relationship, because Franky had certainly never sought it out in others. She had sought out sex as an adult, meaningless fucking, but not the intimacy she had missed. She cried the first time they made love, she started shaking because she had just never let herself feel all of that before. So when Bridget got the urge to reach for Franky, she always did. Skin-to-skin.

But they weren’t at home, and just as she had for most of her life, Franky fought against it.

“Fuck off!” Franky huffed as she shoved Bridget back against the cold brick wall. 

“Franky,” Bridget warned her. That wasn’t the sort of physical contact they needed. Bridget backed herself into the wall as Franky descended with a raised finger pointing into her face. 

“And maybe that’s what turns you on,” Franky continued. “I’m a big fucking prison fantasy.”

Bridget could see where this was going and she didn’t like it. Franky knew it wasn’t true, they had never role-played. 

If anything, Bridget remembered lying in bed next to Franky not long after she had been paroled. They were naked beneath the sheets, and Franky was right where Bridget left her after sex; on her back, with her long, dark hair tossed out across the pillow. She had looked stunned and emotional, that had happened a lot at the start. Bridget propped herself up on an elbow to comb Franky’s hair with her fingers, to soothe her and reassure her that she was safe and loved. She was smoothing that soft, silky hair across the cotton pillow in all directions, when Franky looked her in the eyes and said, ‘I feel like I’m play-acting, Gidge. I feel like I’m play-acting real life and any moment someone’s gonna come in here and yell, ‘cut’.’ 

It was one of Bridget’s favourite memories. 

So Franky could take her suggestion that either of them had a dark prison fantasy that could be used to demean one another, and she could shove it up her ass. That shit was too real, that reality was too damaging, and Franky should have known that as she faced off against an invisible line that she had drawn for herself that she could not cross. It would cost too much.

“Don’t you do this,” Bridget warned her again, as she pointed her own finger up into Franky’s face. Franky could not intimidate her, in spirit they were equally matched.

“Well come on, let’s go, let’s fuck,” Franky said in a hard, agitated tone. 

Her lean body pressed up against Bridget’s as she grabbed Bridget’s wrists and held her arms at her sides. Bridget could feel Franky’s heart beating rapidly as their breasts pressed together and as one of Bridget’s hands managed to briefly grasp the inside of Franky’s right wrist.

Bridget didn’t want to hurt her, she could tell Franky was working herself up and she knew that this was just another attempt to convince Bridget to walk away. Franky didn’t deserve her support, Franky wasn’t worth it. Bridget did not want to have to defend herself against what she believed to be a false intent; Franky didn’t want to hurt her either, that was obvious. 

But Bridget was worried. They were in a compromising position now and while the unit was empty, one of the women or a guard could walk in at any moment. Of course, if one or more of the women did walk in and got excited by what they saw, Bridget also had no doubt that Franky would do a one-eighty within seconds and would fiercely protect her. Holding onto that truth helped Bridget to focus on another; that whatever Franky was doing to her now, it wasn’t because Franky was angry with Bridget. She wanted to hurt herself by pushing people away, she wanted isolation, she wanted numbness, she wanted safety. She felt trapped and wanted to run back to her old life but she couldn’t, so she fought; textbook fight or flight.

Yet Bridget recoiled instinctively as soon as Franky managed to squeeze the bare skin of her waist beneath her shirt and jacket. Bridget’s own conscious awareness of what was happening meant jack shit to her nervous body. Franky wasn’t the only person now faced with a fight or flight response, but Bridget wanted to keep it together, she wanted to stay calm for her. The minute she collapsed, if she demonstrated any genuine fear or pain, Franky would wither, and Franky clearly didn’t want or need that. She needed to feel empowered, she wanted strength.

Bridget only wanted to help her. Why couldn’t she accept that?

“Stop it,” Bridget said. That was still her right, and she still felt uncomfortable. 

“Come on, no don’t worry about it, I can handle it,” Franky crooned up against her face. 

I very much doubt that, sweetheart, Bridget thought. She rolled her eyes and tried to look into Franky’s eyes, but they were wrestling against the wall and Franky’s eyes were well guarded.

Bridget gasped and squeezed her eyes shut when Franky took her black blouse in two hands and ripped it open, exposing her black bra and bare stomach. Fuck, Franky! Very quickly they had stopped just fucking around. They were in her cell, in Wentworth, for fuck’s sake.

“Here, this is what you want, isn’t it? Huh?” Franky asked. 

“Fuck!” Bridget hissed, as Franky groped at her breast with a firm hand and pressed her face into Bridget’s cheek. Bridget felt panicked. She could feel Franky’s hot breath, her breasts, she could smell Franky on top of her, all around her, and it upset her to realise that she still trusted this woman enough to feel okay with that closeness, even as she was frightened and angered by Franky’s complete lack of care and respect for her and for everything they had worked so hard for. She wanted to throw it all away, did she? Bridget meant that little to her? Well, fuck her. Bridget tried to kick her away as her hands battled Franky’s for control.

How dare she!

“Franky! Franky!” Bridget tried to say her name to protest Franky’s ongoing assault on them both, but she lost her voice to her sudden fear and Franky didn’t hear her. Bridget, you fight now, she told herself, as Franky continued to press and shove and touch her without consent.

“Just one last time, I know you want it,” Franky said. There was a sinister edge to her play-acting; a stubborn, curious, ‘come on we’re just fooling around, can’t you handle it?’ tone.

“Fuck you, what are you doing?” Bridget asked in a firm, strong voice over the top of her.

“I’m trying to get you off like a fucking crim!” Franky exclaimed. She went to grab Bridget between the legs but Bridget wrapped a hand around Franky’s forearm and pushed her away.

Franky’s face was right in front of her, close enough for Bridget to kiss her. She tried. She had to try everything in her power to stop this from going any further. She wanted Franky to remember who she was, where she had been in her life just weeks earlier. This wasn't the end, there was still a chance she would get out of Wentworth, everyone was ready to help her to do that. She just had to believe that it was possible, she had to remember she was loved.

Franky wasn’t in the mood, and Bridget quickly gave in to her own primal urges and lost her patience. Franky had pressed their bodies and her face in against Bridget’s cheek again. She touched her breast, and there was an intimacy and a familiarity to this whole fucking scenario but not like this, not ever like this, and Bridget had had enough. This was a fucking assault on her and it hurt, she was scared and her heart was breaking. Bridget would not let it go on, she would not let herself be groped and mind-fucked without her consent, just because it was by Franky. The terrifying thought was that Franky might let it go on, even though it was Bridget.

Bridget shoved her away and allowed Franky to see how fucking angry she was to be used. 

“No Franky,” she insisted. “Fuck! What the hell are you fucking doing.” It was not a question, because Franky knew exactly what she had been doing, she was a clever woman. 

Bridget stared fiercely into her eyes but didn’t know how she felt about what she saw. Franky wasn’t angry, she wasn’t panicked. Her eyes were open and looking straight back at Bridget, and they were quickly filling with tears though her expression remained calm and collected. 

Fuck, Bridget thought. Franky was prepared to stand there and take it. Whatever Bridget had to say, Bridget could lay it on her and Franky would absorb it and use it to justify whatever it was she had been telling herself about her worth; her self-worth or what she meant to Bridget.

Franky had planned this. She wanted – or thought she needed – Bridget to abuse her, for her own misguided gain. She had deliberately pushed Bridget and her patience right to the edge of a cliff, until patience was poised precariously on that edge. Franky wanted Bridget to get angry, to scream in her face, maybe even try to hit her like her mother had, all to confirm to Franky that she deserved to be alone, that she was a useless, disgusting, violent human being. 

It wasn’t true, and Bridget refused to play along. This was not a game, Franky self-harming this way or any other way was not acceptable, and Bridget deeply resented being used by the woman she loved, not to mention the woman she had trusted with the story of her own rape.

How could Franky have done that? Had she just not thought about it? Franky knew what that story meant to Bridget, she was the one who was always going on about protecting her. Well, what about trying to protect her heart, hey? What about trying to protect her emotionally? 

Bridget was so fucking disappointed, and while she would not give Franky the satisfaction of telling her that, Franky could not be allowed to silence Bridget either. She had a voice, she had a say in their lives, and the sooner Franky realised that, the better they were going to be. 

If they even could be better now, Bridget realised sadly, as she looked into Franky’s eyes. 

“You wanna push me away?” Bridget asked her. She paused just long enough to tell Franky with one look that she understood what had just happened. “You fucking failed,” she hissed. 

A look of surprise flitted across Franky’s face and her wide eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Bridget took a step towards her. She felt no sympathy at this point, it was clear Franky knew exactly what she had just done and what an awful thing it was. At the very least, Bridget deserved an apology, but she wasn’t in the mood to hear it now. Bridget’s heart was racing as she worked out how she wanted to end this. Franky would not have the last word, it was hers. 

“You wanna hurt me, hmm?” Bridget asked. She offered Franky a tiny smile, a consolation prize for all the effort she had just gone to. After all, Franky hadn’t role-played her tough chick act in a long time, she would be tired. Ha. “Congratulations, baby,” Bridget told her. 

She left with tears brimming in her eyes as well, but she only made it as far as the wall around the corner from the cell door. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, even though her jacket was unzipped and her blouse was still hanging open with its buttons torn off. Bridget tucked her blouse around herself and zipped her jacket up, while she fought her tears away. No, she would not let herself cry in H3; women could return from the yard at any moment. 

Still, Bridget leant against the wall to catch her breath and to process what just happened. She heard Franky stifle a whimper. Franky was still only on the other side of the wall and she was almost certainly crying, but that only increased Bridget’s determination not to cry as she thought about what to do next. Franky was the one who deserved to be in pain, not her, and yet surely this wasn’t the sort of pain that either of them had had in mind just minutes earlier.

That happened quickly, Bridget realised. She tried to think back, to stretch the memory out. She knew she would be doing that for at least the next day, possibly even the rest of her life. 

What could this possibly mean for their future together? Could they ever recover from it?

Bridget did not believe that Franky wanted Bridget out of her life forever, and she understood that all Franky could bear to focus on right now was Wentworth. The rest was too painful, too terrifying, too potentially heartbreaking. Franky was scared to hope or imagine that she might be free one day, because that would only lead to a greater disappointment if she never was. 

Bridget understood, though that approach to imprisonment was not reserved just for Franky, as Franky seemed to think that it was. All Bridget had been trying to do was support her, and now? She was pretty sure they both had broken hearts. What if she had nothing left to give?

Standing at the door listening to Franky cry, Bridget knew that Franky loved her and felt safe with her, she could not have just put herself through that with someone she did not trust, and yet it didn’t change the fact that Bridget was the one who had walked away feeling unloved, and hurt. As she reflected on that, Bridget came to realise something else as well. Franky was scared about going to trial to argue for her freedom and failing, she might have wanted Bridget to abuse her, to put her in ‘her place’, to remind her where she ‘belonged’ – in a cell, inside Wentworth – but Franky had also wanted one other thing, and unlike the barrage of put-downs that truthfully hadn’t even occurred to Bridget to say, Bridget had given it to her. 

Bridget had just walked away. 

*

Instead of going back to her office, or to her home, Bridget went to the staff room to sit and to think. Even though her shirt was still unbuttoned, her jacket was zipped to the collar and it felt safer for her to be in a communal space. It was also easier for her to keep her composure when there were other people coming and going. A few said hello, she smiled politely at them and they left. The important thing was that they saw her and she didn’t feel so alone. 

Vera approached her, and Bridget knew that to a friend who knew her well, she must have looked destroyed. She was so sad. Her eyes felt moist and raw, they stung, her face was hot. 

“You okay?” Vera asked in a gentle voice as she sat down with a letter in her hands.

“Yeah,” Bridget whispered. She could not hide the pain or the unshed tears in her choked voice, but she offered Vera a small smile to thank her for her kindness. They were friends. Vera was genuinely worried for Bridget, and she didn’t even know what had happened.

At least Bridget hoped that she didn’t know, and that she never found out. Franky desperately needed Vera on her side while she was at Wentworth, Franky actually liked Vera, and Vera’s trust in Franky was still new and fragile. Vera would never forgive Franky if she found out what Franky had just done. She wouldn’t understand it, she would hate Franky for hurting her friend and would punish her for assaulting the prison psychologist. No, it couldn’t happen. 

Whatever had happened, and whatever happened next, that was just between her and Franky.

She thought Vera understood that as they looked each other in the eyes. 

“I need to show you something,” Vera said. She unfolded the letter and held it out towards Bridget. “Ferguson had this sent to the Ombudsman,” she explained. “It’s a letter detailing your continued involvement with Franky and my knowledge of the relationship.”

Shit, Bridget thought as she accepted the letter from Vera’s outstretched hand. So this was the source of Ferguson’s delight the previous day, the reason for her smug attitude and gleaming eyes. Ferguson had arrived for that session knowing that thanks to her, before long the Ombudsman would come knocking to talk about sex, to sack Bridget, to sack Vera, to report Bridget to the Board so that she never got to sit in an upholstered chair to ask Joan or anyone else how they were feeling, ever again. See, Franky, Bridget wanted to say to her. It was nothing to do with you and Pennisi! Bridget wanted to keep arguing until she was believed.

“I’m so sorry,” Bridget whispered as she met Vera’s eyes. Guilt devoured her from the inside.

“Oh this isn’t about you,” Vera assured her. “Or Franky. It’s me she’s after, she wants to ruin my career.”

That was equally true, Ferguson was taking a two-birds-one-stone approach to vengeance.

The words on the page detailing the affair were blurred thanks to Bridget’s tears, she couldn’t read it, and she was saddened by how comfortable Vera suddenly sounded talking about Bridget’s relationship with Franky, how quick she was to try to excuse them. There probably wasn’t even anything left of that relationship to seek comfort in or defend. It would be ironic if Vera had only just accepted that they were in love, and Bridget wasn’t sure anymore.

Still, she would not let Vera take the blame for this, it wasn’t her fault. Bridget had always believed that loving Franky Doyle would be her professional downfall, but she had been okay with that if it meant she could have Franky in her life forever; fun, vibrant, happy Franky.

But those parts of Franky weren’t visible to Bridget anymore, and they may not be again. All of Franky’s empathy and kindness, all of her love had been tucked away, bit by bit. It was how she had survived the constant, otherwise crippling emotional and physical abuse of her mother with so much of her own stubborn soul and good heart intact, and it was how she had survived Wentworth the first time, without being sucked into a cycle of drugs and abuse. She had never forgotten what she put away, who she thought she was and who she wanted to be.

Bridget just hoped one day she would be able to find those things again, and embrace them.

“Oh um, I’ll resign,” she said to Vera. That need was obvious, regardless of what happened into the future with Franky. Avoiding yet another public scandal so soon after Bea’s murder was the best thing for Vera and for Wentworth. “And um, so I’ll…I’ll just quit,” Bridget told her. It really was that easy, it could be done that day. She would never work in prisons again.

She also would never see Franky again, but maybe that was okay.

Bridget’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her voice shook as she searched Vera’s face for a sense of agreement. This was for the best. Vera smiled sadly at hearing Bridget’s offer. 

“You deny everything,” Bridget continued. “And just…just blame me, Vera, just blame me.”

Bridget blamed herself, truly she did. She was a hypocrite. She had pushed Franky too, almost every day since Franky returned to Wentworth, and Bridget had been just as selfish in trying to gain something from it all; validation, reassurance, hope. Franky hadn’t felt able to give any of that to her, she needed those things for herself, and Bridget knew that. Franky had also been trying to pack away all of her memories and her love for safe-keeping, for later, and Bridget kept striding into her life demanding she be allowed to hold on. Was that fair? Their egos and their excellent communication skills had failed them both. Bridget had seen exactly where Franky was going in that cell and she had understood why, and she had not put a stop to it. She could have, but too fast she had allowed Franky to push the pair of them all too far. 

“You shouldn’t make a rash decision in a negative frame of mind,” Vera said in a gentle, sensible voice. “I’m sure you told me that once.”

Bridget began to weep. She could not hold her tears in any longer, even as she laughed at Vera telling her to take her own advice. She wished she had been reminded of it earlier.

A rash decision in a negative frame of mind? Oh Franky, she thought. What have you done to us, darling?

“Yeah, it sounds like me,” Bridget admitted. She met Vera’s eyes. She wasn’t ashamed of how upset she was, she was human and her heart was aching. She was coping, for now.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Vera said.

That was all Bridget had ever wanted to hear.


	23. Franky

Fuck, Allie was chirpy for a chick who was going to spend the best years of her life in jail. Ferguson had tried to kill her with a hot shot, Bea was dead, Franky’s life was fucking ruined thanks-for-asking, and there was Allie in her face yet again, all smiles and lightness and cups of tea, with a million questions that Franky did not give a fuck about. She was worried about Shane going to the cops to dob himself in and to explain why her DNA was all over that gun, and she was fucking gutted by the broken look in Bridget’s eyes that kept popping into her head. Franky tried to get rid of that searing, recent memory by scribbling over and over the faces of a whole lot of randoms in the first trashy mag she had been able to find. She failed.

Fuck!

Bridget was never going to forgive her.

“Doyle, mail for you,” Will said when he walked into the H3 common area with a small collection of letters held together by a rubber band. Franky accepted them grudgingly and tore the band off to flick through them. Her hood was up, she really just wanted to be left the fuck alone, but her day couldn’t very well get worse, right?

Such a stupid question to ask, Franky thought as she pursed her lips. She had just called Allie a smartass but who was she kidding? Franky Doyle was the one with the smart mouth. Yep, some days it was one smart mouth and no brains. She was such a fucking fool, a stupid bitch! 

She hesitated over a blue envelope that wasn’t like the others. She thought maybe it was from her dad. They had only spoken once on the phone, days ago. He was doing okay but he was worried about her, and he said he was going to send some of Tessa’s drawings for her. Franky didn’t want Tessa to know about her being in jail, she was too young to understand and she was safer far away from her big sister, but Franky thought having the artwork could be useful. She could add them to her kite on the pinboard to remind her of home, and family.

A family with Bridget that she would never have.

Yet Franky pushed her family out of her mind and buried her feelings for them inside herself, as soon as she realised that this envelope was not filled with a small child’s crayon drawing.

It was a single page, folded in half; a simple sketch of a black kite with a red tail stuck within the curved barbed wire along the top of a prison wall. Beneath it was the word ‘freedom’, written all in capitals. It had been done with a black pen, except for that one, red, wavy line.

Franky stared at it, stunned. She held it in both hands and frowned. What the fuck was this?

“What’s that?” Allie asked. 

“It’s my necklace,” she said. It had to be; a kite with a red tail, or a single piece of red string tied at the end. “I only ever told Mike Pennisi about it. This must be from someone he told.” 

Bridget was right all along, Franky quickly realised. This hadn’t come from the Freak. Shit!

“Ferguson didn’t kill him,” Franky heard herself say. She believed it, too. 

Fuck, I’m sorry, Gidget, Franky thought as her mind sped off in a dozen different directions.

“What?” Allie asked. “Who did then?”

“It must have been someone he was close to,” Franky said. It had to be someone that Mike knew well enough to have confided in. And if that was the case, whether they planned this together or not, that person was still out there, and there was nothing to be gained from Shane turning himself in to explain Franky’s DNA and to link the gun to Ferguson. That didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was nearly five-thirty. “Fuck! Shane’s gone to the cops!”

Franky ran. She ignored Will’s order that she slow down. She made it to the phones as quickly as she could, hoping desperately that Shane stayed true to his sluggish adolescent pace and wasn’t early. She needed to stop him turning himself in, she needed to stop him from ruining his life. She didn’t want him to end up like her. She didn’t want this life for him.

All the phones were busy, but Franky ran up to the one woman who had dared catch her eye.

“Hey, hey it’s urgent, can I use the phone? I’ll owe ya.” 

Again, being an ex-Top Dog had its perks. An IOU from Franky Doyle was good currency.

“Fuck,” she whispered once the phone was hers. She was equal parts relieved and scared. Please, please pick up, she thought as she dialled. 

As soon as she heard him answer, she spoke with all the urgency that she felt in her heart.

“Hey Shane, it’s me, don’t go to the cops.”

“Why, what’s happened?” he asked. 

Franky breathed out, relieved that it didn’t sound like he was there yet. He still had a chance.

“I don’t think it was Ferguson,” Franky admitted, with her heart still thudding. How could she have been so stubborn, so quick to judge, to not have considered any other alternative?

Shit, they had wasted so much fucking time because of her! She had ruined so fucking much!

“What?” Shane asked. 

“It was someone else,” Franky told him. “Someone on the outside. Are you there yet?”

“No, I’m just outside but I can go.”

“Yes,” Franky said as she sighed. She nodded several times, even though he couldn’t see her. “You should go home, Shane. I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself, all right?”

“Let me know if you need me, Franky,” he said. “I’ll help you, yeah? We’ll figure this out.”

Oh I love you, kid, Franky thought as tears filled her eyes. What he just promised, that was all Bridget had been trying to tell her as well, and Franky hadn’t let her. She couldn’t fuck up twice in one day. She pressed her lips together and nodded. He still couldn’t see her, though. 

“Yeah,” she managed. “Yeah, thanks Shane.” 

After hanging up and moving away from the phones, Franky took a moment to try to figure out her next move. 

What would Bridget do? 

Franky figured she may as well start asking herself that question. She should have done that from the start but it was better late than never. The answer came to her quickly, instinctively.

Bridget would tell someone she trusted and seek guidance.

Franky wanted to tell Bridget, but that wasn’t going to work anymore, was it? Bridget was probably at home by now, burning Franky’s clothes in the sink just like Franky had secretly burned their pictures, or maybe she was working her way through a bottle of wine and a big tub of ice cream, or worse, throwing up into the toilet and sobbing over the seat because Franky had basically raped her. Fuck, Franky had already made herself sick about it too.

Screw it, she took herself out of the equation and the next person Bridget trusted was Vera.

Yes, Franky thought. Yes, she had to speak to Vera. She just hoped that Bridget hadn’t told Vera about what had gone on between them. If loyal Vera knew, well, Franky was fucked.

‘Miss Westfall told me what you did,’ she might say. ‘You’re lucky I haven’t slotted you.’

I’m not lucky, Franky thought. I was lucky. 

Franky went searching for Vera anyway. It didn’t matter how humiliating this was going to be, it didn’t matter if Vera put her in the Slot for the next month, Franky had to chance it. 

It was in the yard that Franky saw her. The petite Governor was on the other side of a fence, walking between compounds. Franky’s heart leapt in her chest and she started running again.

“Miss Bennett!” she cried. “I need to talk to ya!” 

She didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought, at least she hadn’t called out, ‘Vera!’

Franky sprinted to the fence and held the bars, and Vera did stop to speak to her. Bea’s memorial and all of those red ribbons and dying flowers remained strung up between them. 

“Doyle,” Vera said in a rushed, quiet voice. “I’ve looked into Ferguson’s phone calls, there’s nothing in the information, I’m sorry.” She went to walk away but Franky called her back.

“No-no-no, it’s not Ferguson, I know that now,” she hissed. 

Franky looked Vera straight in the eyes, just like she had that day in the library eighteen months earlier when she apologised to Vera for all her bullshit. Miss Bennett, she had called her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bennett,’ she had said, with Bridget proudly watching on. Well, Franky had just called her Miss Bennett again, that meant something, or she desperately wanted it to mean something to Vera. Please don’t forget I’m me, she urged as they watched each other. 

Franky did her best to explain before anyone else overheard them and fucked her over. 

“I got a letter, and there was something in it that I only told Pennisi about.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vera said as she frowned, confused. 

“Pennisi had been stalking me for weeks,” Franky said, wide-eyed. Vera had to believe her, they were friends now, she had to understand! “He must have followed me when I dumped that gun, he picked it up, pretended to run into me and then we talked, and he told the killer what I told him.”

“Doyle-” Vera stated with a wary smirk. 

“Don’t you get it?” Franky asked. “He knew his killer.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” Vera explained in a soft, startled voice. Franky thought Vera probably did believe her, and as a bonus she seemed to be regretful in her reply, but Vera was also too right when she added, “That’s a matter for the lawyers”. 

Yeah, okay, Franky thought. But at the very least, maybe she could tell Bridget? Franky had fucked up majorly and it was obvious that Vera didn’t know. That meant she might tell her. 

“In the meantime,” Vera added. “I set up a counselling session for you and Miss Westfall.” 

Shit! That was the same session that Bridget had come to tell her about. If Vera set it up, that meant Bridget had gone to her and asked for it, maybe fucking begged for it. She would have promised Vera that it wouldn’t be a problem, that they would just talk, that Franky needed it. 

She really did. She missed her chats with Bridget over wine and cheese, over dinner, in the shower together, in bed, but not even a one-on-one session in Bridget’s office was going to happen now. Bridget wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her, and she certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere alone with her. Earlier, if Franky had stayed calm and if she had patiently explained to Bridget that it wasn’t a good time, that they could talk later, then she wouldn’t have hurt Bridget and she still would have gotten her mail, and she and Bridget would have been able to sit in her office and unpack all of this bullshit, to figure out what to do next. 

‘I’ll help you, yeah? We’ll figure this out.’

That was what Shane had just said, and it was all Bridget had been trying to say the whole fucking time Franky had been inside. Why hadn’t Franky heard her when it really mattered? 

And fuck it, all Bridget had needed to hear from Franky was a fucking thank you, or maybe even an, ‘I hear ya, Gidget, I appreciate it. I love you. You’re okay, yeah? We’ll be okay.’

What had Franky done instead? Fucking abused the shit out of her. There was no excuse. There was never an excuse for that kind of violence. She’d been out of her fucking mind!

Whether or not Vera told Bridget about Franky’s letter or how she’d changed her mind about the Freak, Franky didn’t think she and Bridget would ever be okay again, and she deserved that pain. There should be no second chances as far as Bridget was concerned. Franky’s mum got tonnes of second chances and wasted them all, Franky wouldn’t risk it. She loved Bridget.

“Fuck!” Franky huffed, as frustrated tears filled her eyes. She rattled the fence and flung herself away from it, back into the yard. She wanted to get out of this Hell already! 

“No luck?” Allie asked when she approached. 

Franky suppressed her urge to cry and threw her arms out at either side.

“Nuh,” she said with fiercely stubborn eyes and a tight jaw. “I thought the answer was in here but it’s not. It’s outside and there’s jack shit I can do about it.”

It was hopeless.

*

Franky didn’t know how long she spent in the yard, she was dreading lights out, and when it was time for everyone to return to their cells that was still the last place Franky wanted to be.

“Just a few more minutes, please, Mr J,” she said to Will when he caught her eyes and gestured for her to go with he rest, like she was a fucking sheep. The women were filing into their units for the night, but Franky didn’t want to go. She pouted and shook her head.

“Doyle-” he said in a warning. 

“Please,” she repeated with wide, wet eyes. “Please, Mr J. I gotta work some stuff out.”

“Five minutes,” he said. Light was fading fast. “Then work it out in your cell.”

Franky sighed but nodded, and soon she was alone. 

Franky tried to work hard on her plans in what little time she had left in the peace and quiet.

Like always, she thought about how she was going to be freed before or straight after her trial; she visualised that happening and unlocked how it had felt the last time she walked out of Wentworth, to embrace it. However, Franky kept coming back to this idea that freedom two-point-oh was now so unlikely she needn’t bother with this daily ritual of positive reinforcement. Bridget certainly wasn’t keeping tabs, and what did it matter if one of Mike’s old mates killed him and set her up for it, when she couldn’t find them and she couldn’t prove it? She had no fucking clue where to find this random him or her. They had found Franky though, oh boy they knew exactly where she was and they were enjoying it. What the fuck, right? Who in their fucking right mind would be like that? Did they even know her? 

Holy fuck though…what if they knew her? What if, like Mike, they knew everything about her? He could have told this person fucking everything he knew! Her family, her dad and Tessa, Bridget, her home? And Franky couldn’t do anything! How could she warn them all about something she didn’t understand? Bridget wouldn’t believe her anyway, or she would and she’d become paranoid and terrified and Franky didn’t want that to be her life either. 

Fuck, even Shane, he was such a good kid and if he tried to help her he could become a target. She couldn’t help him if he needed her again. Franky could not protect any of them!

Franky didn’t know how she was going to wind down for the night now. She felt empty and overwhelmed and fucking spent, emotionally destroyed, mentally fucked, and for once the Freak had nothing to do with it. She should have trusted Bridget, she should have listened.

Franky had torn that poor woman’s trust in her to shreds, and she had the buttons to prove it.

Her punishment? And it wasn’t enough, not by any means, but Franky had to fall asleep that night – and perhaps every night for the rest of her life – in the room where she assaulted the one woman she adored, the only woman she would give up her fucking life for. Franky could request a different cell, sure, but a part of her didn’t want that either. That wasn’t what she deserved, if it was hard to fall asleep that was her own fault, and moving would mean leaving the last place she had seen and spoken to Bridget. Franky couldn’t imagine a life without her.

Franky looked up, above the top of the prison wall and the barbed wire fence towards the sky. 

What kind of life was out there, she wondered. What might she and Bridget be doing, if none of this had ever happened? Maybe that night would only exist for them in an alternate reality. It wasn’t for her, it wasn’t for them. Franky was never getting out, and Bridget was in pain.

It was then that Franky noticed the red ribbon tangled in the wire, not unlike the tail of her kite in the drawing she had only just received. Ha, that’s fucking timing for ya, holy fuck, Franky thought. She pretended she was talking to Bea, and she heard Bea laughing. Maybe somewhere out there she was, because the ribbon had been snatched from Bea’s memorial by the circling breeze, and had simply been caught by chance. It fluttered in a wind that Franky couldn’t feel from all the way down in the quad. She would never feel wind like that again. 

She watched the ribbon as the seconds ticked by, and she was calmed by it. Bea was with her.

Then all of a sudden she wasn’t. The breeze picked up and yanked the ribbon free, and that piece of delicate, woven red fabric flitted up into the grey sky and over the Wentworth wall.

You’re free now, Red, Franky thought. A smile touched her face and she held it there. She had to end each day positively, she just had to. It was the only way she was going to survive. 

Franky thought of her silver kite and its own sliver of delicate, woven red fabric for its tail, hidden in the cell that couldn’t ever feel like a home – she had certainly made sure of that now, fuck – and she imagined a similar kite, only larger and stronger, with another red tail and gleaming sails picked up by the wind. It soared free, chasing the ribbon over the wall.

Just maybe, Franky hoped, one day she would fly that fucking kite over the wall herself.


	24. Bridget

Bridget was surprised by the knock at her door that night, which came just as she had stepped out of the shower and finished drying. Over the past week she had assured her parents and Franky’s dad that she was fine, she was working long hours, and she wasn’t in the mood for company. No one else in their right mind would just ‘pop over’ at that time on a week night. 

Bridget frowned and debated whether to just ignore it, as she nevertheless quickly pulled on her dressing gown and tied it tightly around her waist. What if it was Franky’s lawyer, Imogen, or Miles, and they had questions about Franky’s statement or the case? What if it was the police and they had questions? What if it was the prison and something awful had happened to Franky? What if she was hurt, or if she’d hurt someone else? What if she’d done something incredibly stupid, in the state of mind she was in? Fuck, Bridget had to answer it. 

“Coming!” she called. She jogged with damp, bare feet into the hallway and towards the front door. Her voice cracked and she wiped tears from her puffy eyes. She had stayed in that fucking shower until the hot water turned lukewarm, and she had cried until her throat and abs ached just as well as her heart. All she wanted for the night was to curl up on the couch, alone, hug a pillow and listen to some music, only her favourites, focus on her own feelings, no one else’s; she just had to make it through to what would hopefully be a much better day.

Bridget had no space and no energy for any other person. She wondered how quickly she could convince this visitor to fuck off, and whether the state of her patchy, flushed, weepy face would do the trick in just a few seconds? There was always hope, she supposed. 

“Who is it?” Bridget asked when she got to the solid door. She crossed her arms tightly around her waist and cocked her head to one side so that she could clearly hear the reply.

“Vera.”

Fuck, Bridget mouthed as her eyes went wide and her mind quickly focused. Franky, what had she done? Bridget scrubbed at her face to try to even out the colour and mask her fear.

“I brought wine,” Vera added. “I thought we could both use a drink.”

Wait, don’t panic, Bridget reasoned as she heard the calm in Vera’s voice. Franky is all right, she can handle herself, remember?

Bridget berated herself for being so quick to worry about the woman after the rotten blow-up they’d just had, and she softened. Okay, so she was a bundle of nerves and she was hurt, but she didn’t have to hide it. She had a right to look and feel like crap at home, she was allowed to show age, fear, pain, and exhaustion, and Vera had already seen her upset at work. She had probably brought wine because that was how they always debriefed and Vera knew Bridget needed it, and that was okay. It was welcome, actually. Bridget opened the door and smiled. 

“Sorry,” she said. “You caught me just getting out of the shower.”

“Oh gosh,” Vera said, as she looked from Bridget’s make-up free face and the straggly, uncombed wet hair hanging over her ears, to the robe tied at her waist, to her bare feet, and back up again. She blushed and stuttered in reply. “I-I-I’m so sorry, I um, I can go?”

“No, no, come in, as long as you don’t mind the hair. I’ll uh, I’ll comb it, shall I?”

“Were you going to comb it, before I got here?” Vera asked with a wise sort of smile that forced Bridget to pause over the threshold and stare at her, surprised by the question.

“Um, no, probably not,” she admitted. Honestly, since Franky was arrested, Bridget had been focusing on getting one foot in front of the other, and all evening those feet had been leading her towards a sleepless night hugging a pillow that smelt like Franky and being angry at herself for feeling a kind of love that was completely inseparable from her deep sense of loss. 

So no, combing her hair hadn’t been a priority.

“Then leave it,” Vera said. “I don’t mind. I like it, by the way, how you’ve cut it. I wish I could get away with having my hair short like that.”

“Thanks,” Bridget said. She let Vera in and closed the door behind her. Vera was indeed holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white; when in doubt, bring both, she might have reasoned. “I uh, yeah I like having it short,” Bridget continued as she led Vera down the hall towards the kitchen-living area. “It’s easy maintenance and uh, well, kind of sexy in a way.” She tried to ignore the memories of Franky telling her exactly that, and Franky running fingers through it to put her to sleep, and instead flashed two playful, temptress eyes towards Vera. Vera laughed and shook her head with an expression on her face that just said, ‘Oh Bridget, really!’ That one look shared between friends made Bridget feel so much better.

Vera put the wine on the kitchen bench and Bridget found herself staring at the labels, trying to work out what to do about dinner. She hadn’t been eating much or very well since Franky was arrested. Toast, the odd omelette, take-away salads, more toast. If she attempted anything too heavy she was throwing up an hour later and she hated that nervous feeling of not being able to settle her stomach; she knew it wasn’t what Franky would have wanted so she had been avoiding trying, and she had also been avoiding drinking as much as she would have if she still felt as happy as she had weeks earlier. Without enough food, she couldn’t risk the hangover. So…what to have with Vera’s wine? It was a kind gesture, they had to drink it.

“Bridget, are you okay?” Vera asked softly from the other side of the bench, by the stools.

“Hmm?” Bridget asked, as she looked up and stood up straighter in the kitchen. 

“You spaced out.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Vera said. Her grey-blue eyes narrowed seriously as she watched her. “I want to know if you’re okay. I haven’t…I mean I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted, I haven’t talked to you about this the way that I’ve wanted to.” She hesitated, her eyes searched Bridget’s for any chance she might reply, but Bridget kept her mouth shut and waited for her to finish saying what she wanted to say. “You were clearly very upset this afternoon,” Vera managed in a soft, nervous voice. Her eyes flickered over Bridget’s equally nervous but more guarded expression. “I came to talk about our meeting with the Ombudsman but I also came because…I thought you might like to talk…about what else is really going on here.”

“What’s really going on,” Bridget repeated carefully. “Like what?” Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes with barely any prompting, and she struggled to get through the rest. “Like the woman I love being stuck inside Wentworth for something she didn’t do?”

“Mm,” Vera hummed sadly. 

Bridget did not think that Vera had ever looked her in the eyes for as long, or with as much genuine understanding and concern as she was looking at her right then. It took Bridget’s breath away, that this was the same woman she had first met as a timid Deputy Governor, well under Ferguson’s spell. Less than two years had passed, but Vera had changed in that time too, they all had, even if a particular ‘someone’ couldn’t find it in herself to admit it. 

“You don’t want to listen to me talk about Franky,” Bridget assured her in a soft, shattered voice as she turned her head and looked away. She shook her head and blinked back tears. One trickled onto her cheek anyway and she took a swipe at it. “You really don’t, Vera.”

“Yeah, I do,” Vera said, her voice quiet but strong. “I’ve never seen you look so upset, Bridget, and I’ve seen the desperation in Franky’s eyes as well. I’m worried…for you both.”

“You’ve seen her today?” Bridget asked. She lifted her full, wet eyes and raised her brow. 

Vera nodded and offered Bridget a sad smile. 

“Yeah,” she said, along with a simple shrug. A wry, disbelieving sort of smile touched her lips as she spoke. “She was telling me this new theory about how it’s not Ferguson anymore, but someone who knew Pennisi. She got some letter…I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”

Bridget’s heart raced away inside her chest and her empty stomach performed a sickening flip-flop. She shook her head once and said the rest with her eyes. 

“Oh,” Vera whispered, as her own eyes went wide. “Um, yes so she spoke to me this evening in the yard. She called me Miss Bennett, I didn’t correct her. She said the letter had something in it that she’d only told Pennisi, I don’t know what, and that he must have told someone what she’d said, and that’s the person who killed him and set her up for it, and they are now sending her letters to uh, well to brag, I suppose. I want to believe her, Bridget, I really do. She seems incredibly sincere and she’s been on her best behaviour, I know she’s scared, but at the same time it’s one of the more far-fetched stories I’ve heard over the years.”

Everything about this is far-fetched, Bridget thought as she attempted to process this news. 

Franky had changed her mind. Beautiful, stubborn Franky, she no longer thought Ferguson was responsible for Pennisi’s murder or her set-up. So what, this whole idea of Bridget not believing her was obsolete? Franky believed Bridget? The letter had to have arrived that afternoon, in the afternoon mail, but did that mean everything between them would have been different had the letter arrived in the morning instead? How was that fair? Fuck, that hurt!

Franky had clearly gone straight to Vera, she must have, to have caught up to her somehow between the afternoon mail and dinner. Had Franky told Vera, hoping Vera came straight to Bridget to tell her too? Bridget didn’t know how to feel about that if it was true; did Franky want her help, or not? Did Franky want her kept up to date? Did Franky love her, or not?

Don’t be ridiculous, you know the answer to that, her conscience chimed in. She loves you.

But Bridget had barely dealt with what had happened that day in the Franky’s cell, she hadn’t dealt with it at all, actually, and now what? Did Franky need help? Were they both in danger? 

I can’t deal with this now, Bridget realised as her thoughts overwhelmed her and she felt panic rise up from her unsteady belly. What was she meant to do? She didn’t know! She should have been smarter about this, if Franky was in her place instead she would have been halfway to a solution already and she would be so strong and passionate; Bridget should have been thinking more than she was but it was all just heavy and grey-skies-foggy up inside her head, and all she knew was that Franky loved her and yet she felt raw, vulnerable, and sick. She pressed her lips together and shook her head, as two more tears spilled onto her cheeks.

“Oh Bridget,” Vera said softly.

Bridget wrapped one of her hands across her mouth to muffle her sudden sobs, and she leant forward to brace her hands and forehead on the edge of the kitchen bench. She’d had no idea that the sound that escaped from her then had existed inside her, she had never grieved the way that she was, and she hated her grief because Franky wasn’t dead, it couldn’t be like that. Two weeks earlier they had been content, in love, and she had been so fucking happy, and she felt like she’d been robbed of that, by someone she didn’t know; she didn’t have the first clue who it could be, and probably neither did Franky. They were both so fucking helpless. 

Vera walked around the bench and awkwardly patted Bridget on the back as Bridget cried heavily into her hands. When Bridget couldn’t hold herself up anymore and sank to kneel on the floor, Vera said nothing of crouching down behind her and wrapping an arm around her. 

“I’m sorry,” Bridget wept into her hands.

“No, shh, it’s okay,” Vera said. She sounded uncomfortable, but she still pulled Bridget into her arms and encouraged her to cry into her shoulder. Bridget accepted the invitation. She hadn’t hugged anyone other than Franky in so long, and she really desperately hated herself for still wanting Franky’s arms around her, even after what she had done. It wouldn’t happen.

Fuck, Vera was still wearing the Governor’s uniform and everything, Bridget soon realised. 

She composed herself with deep breaths and buried her face into the shoulder of Vera’s navy blazer. Vera’s grip had tightened gradually, as she became more confident in simply sitting there and holding her, and Bridget tightened her own arms around Vera’s back to try to thank her. Bridget knew this didn’t come easily to Vera, but she so appreciated the effort that Vera was going to, to be a good friend, without even knowing exactly why Bridget was so upset. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again before they parted. “Oh Vera, I’m sorry.” When she could, she looked Vera in the eyes, but she couldn’t hold her gaze for long. Bridget quickly rolled her raw eyes as more tears trickled from her lower lids. “We’re just in a lot of pain right now.”

We, Bridget thought. Yes, they were still a ‘we’, when it came to that assessment at least.

“And we’re angry,” Bridget continued in a trembling voice. She glanced back at Vera and levelled her with an expression that begged her to understand, without Bridget having to say any more. Bridget could not tell Vera what had happened that day, not the details, and it had nothing to do with trying to cover it up; she wasn’t ashamed even if Franky should have been. It was just that Vera was Franky’s strongest ally inside Wentworth, Vera was a link for Franky to the outside world and to the police, and she needed her, they all understood that.

Vera’s wise eyes searched Bridget’s face and she pressed her lips together before speaking.

It quickly became clear that Vera understood a little more than that, or she had guessed.

“Has Doyle been unkind?” Vera asked in a soft voice that seemed to know the sad answer.

Bridget shut her eyes and nodded as her chin crumpled inwards and she tried not to cry again.

“I’m sorry,” Vera said. She sounded sincere as she clutched Bridget’s hands that were in Bridget’s lap. “I know you love her, and for what it’s worth I do believe she loves you too”. 

“She’s pushing me away,” Bridget said. She looked skywards again and shook her head. “She doesn’t believe she’s ever getting out this time, Vera. She’s trying to give herself a reason for being there that isn’t a mistake, trying to justify what a bad person she is so she can accept where she is, forever. I’m worried about what she might do, if she thinks that she’s lost me or doesn’t deserve me anyway, or what she might do if she thinks that she’s never getting out.” 

“You mean…like Bea?” Vera asked. “Would she try to kill Ferguson, do you think?”

Bridget stared at her and raised her eyebrows to silently answer, ‘yes’. Franky had been arrested for murder, a murder that she did not commit. If she was convicted, or even before she was convicted, if she believed that no jury would ever free her, then what better way to justify and come to terms with that fate than by actually committing a murder? She would choose one that was arguably worthwhile or more noble than the rest; Joan Ferguson. 

“Or,” Bridget continued. “She could just…self-destruct. Vera, she is capable of so much when she’s angry and in pain, and she is terrified. I love her, I just want her home.”

“I know you do,” Vera whispered. 

“This is our home,” Bridget said wistfully, laughing sadly as she cast an arm around the kitchen above them. “This is where we talked and laughed, ate, danced, made love-”

“Oh, um, not right here?” Vera asked in a deliberate quip of a stutter. She scrunched up her nose and looked around the kitchen floor, wide-eyed, as though they might need to spray it. 

Bridget started laughing and shook her head. She wiped the tears that continued to fall onto her cheeks as she laughed, and Vera grinned at her and gave her hands another squeeze. 

“Do you want me to stay tonight?” she asked. “Because I will, Bridget, it’s not a problem.”

Bridget shut her eyes again and nodded. She didn’t really want to be alone, she never had.


	25. Franky

Escape. 

Franky would be lying if she said the idea just came to her out of the blue. 

Three years inside Wentworth already; there had been a lot of nights lying in bed inside her cell, nights when she had been too exhausted from all the Top Dog bullshit and mastering the Freak’s mind-fucks, but too scared to close her eyes, and in that time she had planned her escape. I have to get out of this place, she’d thought. Out of this blue fucking tracksuit. It was just as true then as it was now, because Franky wasn’t sleeping again and this time there was no good reason for her to be there; she was fucking innocent! And she wasn’t lying awake every night because someone inside wanted to kill her, she didn’t need to worry about her safety on the inside anymore, or not now, but someone on the outside obviously had similar designs and this time it affected not just her, but everyone she had left out there on their own.

To what, to fucking fend for themselves? Yeah, right. 

It was an old plan, but fuck it, Franky always thought it was a pretty good one. She needed it. 

Most importantly, she needed it to prove her innocence. No one else was going to do that for her, even Imogen was now telling Franky that Legal Relief didn’t have the resources to mount the sort of defence Franky was asking for. Franky wanted one hundred and ten percent from herself and from her lawyers, and Legal Relief barely got funding for eighty percent of their annual budget from year to year. Franky understood their limitations, really she did, but she wasn’t just some ordinary client off the street; she was an employee, she was not guilty, and she was sitting idly inside Wentworth while some prick out there was laughing at her! 

She had to find out who else wanted Mike dead. Who else would benefit from it? It wasn’t like anyone benefited from her being in jail, she hadn’t pissed anyone off in ages, so there had to have been a reason he was killed that related to him, not her. Why would they kill him and set her up for it? Did they intend to set her up, or was her guilt just the conclusion the stupid police had jumped to, without investigating further? But if the killer hadn’t meant to set her up, then why send her the drawing? Why rub it in her face? Were they that arrogant?

Maybe it was one of Mike’s relatives, she thought. A brother, a son. Being an arrogant show-pony could run in families, right? Franky knew she was right about the compensation payout. 

Besides, she missed Tessa, she missed pushing her little sister on the swing and she missed hearing her laugh and giving her cuddles. She missed work, she missed walking into an office and having people smile at her and say, ‘Good morning’; they asked her about her weekend, they said thank you when all she did was her job, they taught her what they knew and helped her when she fucked up. She missed cooking, she missed making fresh pasta and standing over a sauce simmering on the stove as Bridget poured them both another glass of wine. 

Franky couldn’t keep ignoring all of that. Her original plan had been to focus solely on the need for freedom in the present and how to achieve it for herself, and to not think about Bridget, her memories of the past, or her dreams about the freedom she hoped for her future. That had been a fucked up plan, in hindsight. Those matters were eternally bound up, and Franky had been a fool to try to sever their connection; they were everything that held her life together. So Franky let herself think about them now, her past and dreams, but she utilised a mindfulness technique that Bridget had talked to her about; she recognised that they were just thoughts about people and things that might not happen, she did not let them overwhelm her. 

Franky had seen Bridget in the prison halls, but they hadn’t spoken since that afternoon in her cell. Franky wasn’t sure if Bridget would ever speak to her again and she wasn’t yet brave enough to try. She had done something unforgivable to the woman she loved, and she hadn’t even been genuinely angry at Bridget. Panic and fear and self-doubt had all had their way with her, and anger was how she defended herself from internal and external threats. Bridget knew it, Bridget was the one who had told her that repeatedly until Franky had been prepared to accept it. Bridget had not been wrong about Franky, just like she had not been wrong about Ferguson having nothing to do with Mike’s death. Franky hadn’t trusted her, she’d used her.

Or she had tried. Bridget wasn’t the sort of woman who let herself be used, even by Franky.

‘You wanna push me away? You fucking failed.’

Franky was so fucking sorry, but she didn’t know how to say it in a way that wouldn’t sound trite, or that wouldn’t seek to dismiss Bridget’s pain or excuse what Franky had done. 

Franky had gone over and over it all in her head, and she had imagined so many different scenarios of how to approach Bridget and what to say, when and where to do it, and what Bridget might say in reply. She imagined holding Bridget’s hands and sinking to her knees to apologise, she thought about what look should be on her face as she tenderly took Bridget’s jaw in her hands like Bridget had tried to do for her, or how she was meant to say, ‘I’m sorry’, with all the sincerity that she felt when she still didn’t feel like that would be enough. 

There was a worse scenario, too, and it was the reason Franky’s heart thudded painfully all night as she lay awake, and it was the reason she knew she would have to suck it up and talk to Bridget honestly and about everything she felt, sooner rather than later, even if she cried, even if they both bawled. It was the reason Franky had to get out and put all things right.

What if Bridget was hurt, or killed by this faceless psycho who hadn’t just killed Mike for the sake of killing Mike, but to fuck with Franky as well? What if Franky never got to tell her?

Time was ticking. All Franky felt now was a movement in time; day to night, fast day to slow day, clocks on the wall and announcements over the PA. Everything reminded her that she had no time to waste, she could not lose her grip on time, she had to keep moving forward just as quickly as those second hands ticked by on the clock in her unit. Franky had always been conscious of that; losing time was an easy, common thing that happened inside prison, but if a person lost time then they lost themselves and everything that mattered to them. Franky only had to look at Doreen blubbering over the photos of her son growing up into a little man on the other side of the country to be reminded of that. Doreen had not changed inside Wentworth, but everyone on the outside who ever meant anything to her was moving along in time with that fast-paced clock, living their lives, improving themselves, getting old. 

Franky didn’t want Bridget to go on without her, and maybe that was a possessive want, but Bridget was the one who had initiated those conversations in the past, things like wanting to buy a home with her and wanting to grow old with her. It wasn’t wrong to want all that too.

Franky had to let Bridget know that she still loved her, and she wanted Bridget to understand why she had pushed her away, why she had assaulted her. Franky wasn’t like her mother in her heart, and she didn’t want Bridget to fear her or to believe she was becoming that woman. She didn’t want Bridget to think that pushing her away had just been a part of Franky’s inevitable downwards spiral either, because the poor love had such a bad mother and unstable childhood, and she had been so angry and violent, who could blame her? No. Fuck that. 

Franky couldn’t remember if that was what she had wanted Bridget to think that afternoon in her cell; she had lunged at Bridget so fast and she had been in so much pain, but her mind was clear now, and there was no way Franky was admitting defeat. Her childhood did not define her, she had control over the decisions she made and the person she was. She had exceeded expectations, and she would not let herself lie back and be fucked over by time. 

Truthfully, Franky did not think Bridget would suddenly start blaming her mother or believing her to be a lost cause, but Franky couldn’t just assume the best and move on. No, she would sincerely put things right with Bridget, she would speak from the heart, but first?

Franky wanted to redeem herself. What was the point of saying sorry to Bridget when they had no hope that anything else would change? She would still be in jail, facing a committal hearing that was coming up way too fucking fast for the police to be looking for anyone else who might have been involved. She would still be inside Wentworth, without the ability to share the sort of happy family life that Franky knew Bridget had wanted with her, before. 

‘And we’re alive, and we’re happy, and I’m loving my life.’

You spoke too soon, Gidget. Franky couldn’t help putting her down like that. She felt robbed. 

Franky wasn’t blaming this unknown fucker for everything though, no way. They had taken her freedom but she had truly fucked up the rest. It was her responsibility to fix it, not just for herself but for Bridget too, so that no matter what happened to either of them, or to both of them, Bridget felt calm and knew the truth and could reconcile it all in that gorgeous mind. They had met each other’s eyes in the halls a few times now, and Bridget had seemed as guarded as Franky; they were nervous, with everything between them still too raw and sad.

But Franky couldn’t say everything she wanted to say, she couldn’t explain and say sorry and ask for forgiveness until she had something more to offer than a lifetime of barbed wire-topped walls and fucking teal. Bridget deserved so much more, and fuck it, so did Franky.

She never killed the arrogant prick! He was the one who tried to kill her, for fuck’s sake!

So, to Plan B. Franky still had it all mapped out inside her head, nothing at Wentworth had changed in terms of the cameras or how shit was laid out, and she could do this. She had to. 

And if Legal Relief didn’t have the resources to help her, then Franky would help herself. 

‘I could do it myself,’ she had said to Imogen, and she had meant it in all the ways that Imogen hadn’t understood, and probably wouldn’t understand until Franky got her stupid prison-break ass hauled back to Wentworth. 

But whatever, because if Franky could stay out for just one day, if she found just one thing that helped to clear her name, it would be worth it. They could keep her in jail for breaching parole until the end of her original sentence, but they would not take all of her life, they would not take all of that precious time from her, she would not be leaving prison in a coffin.

First, she needed a tool, and if there was one thing Franky could count on, it was how efficient Vera had always been at calling in outside tradies when shit broke down. Vera truly cared about the prison, and about making sure the women were safe and healthy and all that bullshit. Their basic needs were met with a reliability that could be anticipated. It hadn’t taken much to fuck with the old pipe in the kitchen when no one was looking – a few whacks with a fry pan and a towel to muffle the noise – and as Franky lined up for her buffet lunch of slop the next day, sure enough, a plumber was crouched over the pipe putting things right.

Franky had been prepared to use the day as a test run, she had been willing to sacrifice a couple of days before striking for real, but Smiles was overseeing the dining room that day, and Franky knew all about her. Plus, the plumber was right there with his tool kit wide open and he looked pretty dense. She might not get another chance like it, conditions were perfect. 

“Franky, Franky!” Doreen said as she ran up to her in the queue. “I need your help. I’m applying for a transfer and I gotta present my case to the Board.” 

“Yeah?” Franky asked, as she focused on the food in the buffet and tried to decide what she wanted. It looked suitably disgusting and her stomach turned. The kitchen had obviously gone downhill again since she stopped running it like a pro. She wanted real food, dammit. 

“Franky, Franky-”

“Yes, what?” she asked Doreen in a huff. For fuck’s sake, she was trying to keep one eye on the plumber and one eye on the shit she was dumping on her plate. She had to work herself up for what she was about to do, didn’t they get that? This was a big risk, it was a big deal.

This was Franky-fucking-Doyle, at her fucking best. 

Or at least she fucking hoped so, and it wasn’t Doreen’s fault that Franky was wound tighter than an antique stop-watch; she didn’t know anything about Plan B, Franky never told a soul.

“You can use your legal skills to help me write something amazing,” Doreen was saying to her. She sounded desperate, her voice was soft, and she had the puppy-dog eyes going on. “Can you help me, please?” she asked, full of hope that she might actually get out, and soon.

How could Franky say no? Even the old Franky would have caved, let alone the updated version who worked at Legal Relief and who was really responsive to people saying please. 

Fuck, if Franky hadn’t been so eager to please Mike that day in the café, if she hadn’t caved in at the sight of his own seemingly gentle eyes and hopeful smile, then she might have been on the phone to Bridget, having their usual lunch time chit-chat. She was a fucking sucker!

“All right just chillax, will ya?” she said to Doreen, as she grabbed Doreen’s cheeks in one hand and squeezed them. Of course she would help, she couldn’t fucking help it. “Y’cutie.”

Doreen sounded so grateful, but with that taken care of, Franky needed to focus again. For now, the updated version of whoever she was or whoever she thought she was meant to be could go and get fucked. For this to work, it was time to drag the old Franky up out of the quicksand. Franky could feel her close to the surface now, she had been clawing her way back for a while, but Franky had been fighting it since coming back inside, she had been fighting herself, because pain and fear weren’t good enough reasons to give in to all of that. Hope was, though, and Franky just hoped she wasn’t left gasping for air at the end of it.

She sat down at the table, she waited. A few seconds, nothing more. There wasn’t time.

She spooned food into her mouth and even though she had no intention of swallowing, she wanted to vomit. At least they were making this easy for her, she thought. Another spoonful.

“Augh!” she exclaimed loudly, so that she was heard over the top of the usual conversation. She spat the food out of her mouth onto the floor and stood. Her table was in the centre of the room, everyone could see her. “This is fucking disgusting, I wouldn’t feed this shit to pigs!” 

Smiles approached her and the women started yammering on in agreement. 

“It’s shit!” Franky exclaimed to the room, as though that was new information to everyone. 

“You are disgusting, Doyle,” Smiles said sternly. “Go get a mop and clean that up now.”

Sure Miss Miles, Franky thought. Thank you for saying exactly what I expected you to say.

“Oh come on Smiles, you know it’s shit!” Franky called out, more to the women than to the guard standing directly in front of her. This was a call to arms, and Franky knew it was just what all the poor women in this fucking awful place had been waiting a very long time for, because they certainly weren’t getting any other recognition like it from the Top Dog. It was about time someone raised their voice and stood up for these women, it might as well be her.

Franky picked up her fork and repeatedly beat it into table to announce, “Shit! Shit!” 

Once, twice, one second, two seconds. Two seconds was all it took for almost every woman in that dining room to be chanting along with her. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Three. Four. Five. Six. 

Franky started grinning as she chanted with them. Perfect, she thought. Fucking perfect. Shit!

Allie stared at her in shock. What the fuck, right? She had probably never seen anything like it, she was still trying to figure Franky out and she was too stunned to join in. Ferguson would have been sitting back, enjoying the entertainment with one of those ridiculously smug little smiles that pissed her and Bridget right off. Kaz was there too, bemused but probably freaking out about how quickly Franky had just brought all the other women along with her. 

You wanna see a real Top Dog? Franky asked the silent question to give her strength. Yes! You wanna see what we can do? A blink of an eye, that was all it took. Franky channelled every part of who she had been and she looked around the room and realised; they’re mine.

But Franky didn’t give a fuck about the Top Dog or the fucking Freak, this was all about her.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Franky put her fork down, threw her arms out, and cheered broadly to lift the chorus of excited, restless women who had been cooped up living out their boring lives on standstill inside a prison for too long. Maybe it was time to change all that, maybe they felt it too. 

Franky ambled past the buffet into the kitchen for the mop. 

“Shut up the lot of you unless you want to go in the Slot!” Smiles shouted

“How big’s your slot?” Boomer replied. 

Franky ignored her old friend’s fucking awesome joke and the echoing chant she had created. The mops were right near the pipe, an arm’s length from the plumber’s open tool kit. As he stupidly walked nearer to the raucous dining room to check out what was going on inside this maximum security women’s prison – because it wasn’t every day you got to see that, but how stupid could you be, right? – Franky reached into his bag, retrieved a large shifting spanner, and slid it up the sleeve of her hoodie. Then she got the mop. 

The tool was cold and heavy, but she bent her forearm slightly upwards to balance it. When she returned to the dining room she was calm, and she grinned at Smiles as she cleaned up the mouthful of food she had spat out. Smiles couldn’t stand the broad grin on her face, and turned away, which was fine because Franky didn’t care for the close attention that day.

Boomer had started up a chant of, “Franky, Franky,” when she returned, but Franky didn’t need to play anymore and the other women saw that. Boomer stopped, but started clapping instead, and maybe about a dozen others did the same. Franky kept her head down and smiled to herself. She listened to the way everyone was suddenly laughing and talking to each other. 

The dining room had been like a fucking morgue when Franky walked in, at least now it was alive. Franky felt more alive and the rest of the women did too, because no matter what was going on in all of their shit lives, that had just been a bit of fun and they needed it. Craved it.

You are welcome, Franky thought as she packed up. Tears of empathy stung her eyes as she put the mop away, but she fought them back, forced her face into a blank stare, and focussed on getting out of that dining room before anyone realised there was a spanner up her sleeve. 

She passed Bridget in the hall and got another chance to look into her eyes. Franky saw only guarded concern, and that was fair because that was all she was prepared to show Bridget too.

One day, Gidget, she promised herself as she hurried back to her cell. One day she would explain, and apologise, and she would be able to hold on tightly again to all the thoughts and memories that now she had to just let drift away when they came, lest they overwhelm her.   
What she was planning was overwhelming enough, and Franky had to make it work. She had to clear her name, she would never stop trying. She was going to get over that fucking fence.


	26. Bridget

Bridget now only ever saw Franky in prison hallways. 

She remembered the first time Franky had been inside Wentworth, and how easily Bridget had always seemed to be able to locate her outside of her cell. There had also been a number of times when Franky just seemed to find her outside of her office. That ease had carried through into their romantic life together, and if anything, their sense of where one another was and how they were feeling at any given time had only gotten stronger. It was intensely personal. Bridget knew when Franky was behind her even if she made no noise, and Franky was the same. If they were apart they had a lingering sense of one another’s lives, and if they were together a lot of the time no words were needed, though they were always welcome. 

That connection was not lost, as it turned out.

They still found each other inside Wentworth, even though Bridget was sure Franky was consciously attempting to avoid her. They hadn’t spoken since Bridget walked out of her cell.

This time, Bridget had been returning to her office after leaving the admissions area when she heard a sudden increase in noise emanating from the other direction, around a corner or two, perhaps in the vicinity of the dining room used by H block. Noise travelled easily throughout the spiralling concrete hallways and up and down the staircases. The inside of the prison was like a giant ear, and Bridget heard the chant go up loud and fast. It was unmistakeable. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

It was lunch time, H block should have been quietly eating, and the sound of mass protest was never a good sign of things to come. Franky was also in H block, her cell was in H3, and Liz, Boomer and Doreen were in H1. Even though she was not a guard, Bridget owed them all a duty of care, and if something was happening between the women in that dining room, Bridget wanted to know. If Franky got hurt Bridget wanted to be there, immediately, and if Franky was the one with the fork in her hand, whether it was held to Joan’s throat again or someone else’s, then Bridget wanted to be the one to stand behind her and calmly say, ‘Stop’.

Irrespective of anything that had happened between them, Franky would stop. Bridget knew that in the deepest part of her heart and in the clearest part of her mind. Franky would stop.

Please stop, darling. 

But that day Franky wasn’t in danger of being hurt or of hurting anyone, because Bridget passed her in the hallway as Franky was leaving the dining room, alone and lost in thought.

Franky came around the corner and Bridget saw her first. She held her breath as her raw heart leapt. She was already watching when Franky’s eyes automatically latched on to hers, as they always seemed to do, almost before Franky registered who it was she was walking towards. Her green eyes widened briefly before they became guarded, and her expression went blank.

She looked pale, Bridget thought. She wasn’t eating. 

They didn’t say a word to each other as they passed, but Bridget lingered as she got to the end of the hallway. Turning right towards the rowdy dining room would take her further from Franky, and she wasn’t done looking at her yet. Bridget wanted to soak up the sight of her, even though there was so much still unsaid between them. She wanted to hug her tight.

Franky must have felt it too, that unique and private sense of Bridget’s eyes still on her even though her back was turned, because as Franky walked away she slowed and looked over her shoulder. That’s right, Franky, Bridget thought. Remember to look back. Their eyes met.

Bridget tried to ask Franky if she was all right but she was careful not to show too much in her own expression, even standing at such a safe and respectable distance from the woman who had pushed her and groped her and ripped her shirt in a shocking display of anger and pain, self-doubt and self-hatred. In her attempt to push Bridget away, Franky had lost control. 

However, Bridget was not afraid of her, she never had been, and Franky truly had failed in pushing her away. Bridget wished she could tell Franky she wasn’t eating either. She still had that impulse to talk to Franky about her day, every day, but if Franky wanted nothing to do with her while she was inside Wentworth then Bridget accepted that, and it meant no talking, and definitely no touching. Franky had made that more than clear, and truthfully Bridget was still deeply hurt because of the way Franky had fought her, and she needed Franky to know that too. It was difficult to tell her so much in a few brief seconds, so she hoped merely to communicate a simple, ‘I’m still here’. Yet it was even more difficult to see it acknowledged in Franky’s guarded, mostly vacant eyes. They looked right through Bridget. It was a look that would have scared her if she didn’t know Franky well enough to believe it was forced. 

Beneath that well-worn mask, Franky was heartbroken and hurting too. She had looked back.

I’m still here, Bridget tried to tell her again. Together, they would hurt less, but knowing that nothing would be resolved that day, not in a hallway or anywhere else inside Wentworth, Bridget continued towards the dining room. Franky watched her leave, Bridget felt it well. 

*

By the time Bridget arrived at the dining room, things had calmed down. The women were laughing and talking loudly, but they were not aggravated. They seemed happy overall, and in fact Bridget had not seen the group so generally upbeat since long before Bea’s death. 

“What is going on in here?” Bridget asked curiously, as she approached Linda. The guard scoffed and rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to explain when they were interrupted.

“Miss Westfall!” Boomer exclaimed. “You missed it! Oh my God, it was the best!” She leapt out of her chair and bounded towards her. Boomer was easily twice the size of Bridget, and Bridget looked up into her bright, innocent eyes. “Franky, Miss Westfall,” Boomer said. “Franky is-” She paused to turn her head deliberately towards Kaz as she shouted, “-the best Top Dog ever! Even if she isn’t anymore, eh,” she then added as she turned back to Bridget.

Bridget raised her eyes and glanced at Linda. Bridget had just seen Franky, and Franky had looked pale, tired, and guarded. She had not been half as happy as Boomer was now. 

“Some things never change,” Linda muttered with a wry smirk. “Just Doyle being Doyle.”

“Narr,” Boomer protested with wide, earnest eyes. She shook her head. “Franky’s the best, right Miss Westfall? She was sticking up for us, y’know? Cos the food’s so shit?” She raised her voice on the last few words and a few of the other women overheard and started laughing.

“Yeah, it’s shit!”, “Shit!” some of the women called out. Beside Bridget, Linda groaned. 

Bridget knew immediately that Franky had started that chorus. Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

“She spat her food out, all over,” Boomer continued without prompting. She laughed at the memory and gestured around her. “Cos like, it’s fucking awful. Remember when Franky was in charge of the kitchen, Miss Westfall? We had the best food, hey. It was so fucking good, every day. Well, as good as it can be, y’know, cos it’s a prison and not fucking five star.”

“That’s very true, Boomer,” Bridget agreed as she folded her arms and smiled kindly. 

“Today Franky was like, ‘Narr, this is bullshit!’ And the rest of us, we were like, yeah, about time someone fucking noticed and called ‘em on it! Haven’t had that much fun in days, hey.”

“Yeah well it’s time to calm down now, Boomer,” Linda said firmly. “You’ve had your fun, and your lunch, so off you go back to your unit.”

“Yeah, yeah all right. Bye, Miss Westfall. I’m so sorry you missed it, hey. Next time but.”

“Goodbye Boomer,” Bridget told her with a gentle laugh as she returned Boomer’s friendly wave. She looked sideways at Linda once they had a bit more privacy, and Linda scoffed.

“Fucking Franky Doyle,” she said under her breath. 

“Spat her food out?”

“All over the fucking floor like a pig,” Linda said. She rolled her eyes again and crossed her arms. “Made her clean it up herself of course, but Doyle had them all carrying on like pork chops in a matter of seconds, and she looked far too pleased about it. Watch out, she’s back.”

“Mm,” Bridget hummed. She fought the sadness that arose upon hearing other people’s low expectations for Franky, and the impulse to instantly leap to her defence. She was not ‘back’. 

Bridget wasn’t needed there so she soon left, and she returned to her office deep in thought. She tried to reconcile the story she had heard from Linda and Boomer with the direct yet distant look she had seen in Franky’s eyes as they passed in the hall. Franky had started all of that, but she left before it was over. She had roused a crowd and created a mob, then she had buggered off without sticking around to revel in her power. She hadn’t looked empowered.

So had Franky spat her food out on purpose, to rile them up for a reason, or had she spat it out in genuine disgust? Was she missing her food? Bridget was. Had Franky used bravado to cover up her weak stomach and the weak mind she might tell herself she had if she couldn’t stomach the food? Was she frustrated, or starving? Maybe she was both? Bridget was.

*

The next morning, Bridget was determined to have a good day as she strode into work. She’d had five hours of unbroken sleep the night before and she had even kept down breakfast. She was in her black blazer and a simple white top, a good pair of black pants, and her favourite boots. Her bag with its long strap was slung over her shoulder and she held it at her hip with one hand, while her other hand held her laptop in its case. Her office keys were wrapped around her fingers and they jangled as she walked quickly along the hall towards her office. 

“Better dump your stuff and come with me, Bridget,” Will suddenly said from behind. 

Bridget’s heart leapt into her throat as she turned to face him and raised her brow. She was jumpy because she was exhausted, and every time he used that serious voice she worried that he had something awful to tell her about Franky. What had happened overnight? Was Franky okay? Was she in Medical? Was she in the Slot? Had she been asking to speak to Bridget?

“Is something wrong?” Bridget asked. 

“Staff meeting,” he said. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

Bridget’s stomach turned but she nodded. 

“Do I have time to-” She paused and gestured to her office. Her door wasn’t even open yet.

“Yeah, yeah, five minutes. I’ll see you there,” Will said as he walked on without her. 

Bridget appreciated that she had some time. She took a deep breath as she unlocked her door and pushed it open, and she took another deep breath once she had put her two bags on her office chair. She stood behind her chair and clasped the back of it, to look over her office. She really did like working at Wentworth. It was a good space, there were good people there.

Still, Bridget did not linger, and she quickly joined Will, Linda and the others in the staff room for the morning briefing. It was routine, so Bridget didn’t know why Will had sounded so stern. Bridget took a seat on the couch as many of the guards stood. Vera stood at the end of the room to face them all. She cleared her throat, wished them good morning, and began. 

“I’ve just had a call from the tradesman who was here yesterday.”

“He wants my number,” Linda quipped. 

“He called to report a missing shifting spanner, it’s possible one of the prisoners has stolen it.”

Fucking hell, Bridget thought as she grimaced in her seat. That’s why Will was upset. They already had a serious problem with drug use inside the prison; that was a constant battle. If someone was also collecting weapons like the screwdriver that had been used on Bea Smith then all Hell could break loose if those drugs were taken away, or if someone started a fight.

“So a lockdown and cell toss straight after breakfast?” Will asked. Will and everyone else in the room understood the urgency of this. They were lucky it had been reported so quickly.

“You read my mind, Mr Jackson,” Vera said. Her voice was firm as she continued. “If it is in this prison I want that shifter found, preferably before it’s used to part someone’s hair.” 

Bridget wasn’t entirely sure what a shifting spanner was, but given Vera’s tone, Bridget imagined it was larger and much heavier than the dinky metal spanners she had sometimes used to help her put furniture together. She would look it up when she got back to her office. 

Bridget also prayed to God that Franky wasn’t the target as a former Top Dog. Bridget had reflected on Franky’s antics in the kitchen; a rousing of the spirit, no doubt. It was clear that the women still felt an allegiance to Franky, or a connection with her. They were desperate for a leader who they felt would advocate for them. A part of that meant allowing the women to express themselves, and that wasn’t necessarily something Kaz was prepared to let happen. 

Franky knew exactly how to play to the women, and it had to have felt threatening to Kaz and her crew once they realised how quickly Franky had taken control of that dining room, and how quickly Franky could take control of the entire prison, if she so desired. Bridget didn’t think she wanted it; Franky would have only been mucking around for her own amusement, but that was not what it would have looked like to someone who didn’t know her as well as Bridget. Kaz might have been against violence between the women, but she continued to resist counselling, there was anger there, and an ex-Top Dog sniffing around could bring out the worst in her, or in loyal friends who weren’t so disciplined. Maybe that was what Franky thought she wanted; she wanted to be punished so she could convince herself she deserved it. 

Yet a tool like the one Bridget had in mind could kill Franky with a single blow, or rape her with a single, devastating thrust. Bridget would not wish that on anyone. 

“Any leads on whether it was malicious damage to the tap?” Vera asked the room.

“Uh, the CCTV showed nothing, Governor,” Jake said.

No surprise there, Bridget thought as she smirked and rolled her eyes. 

“All right, that’s it,” Vera said on a sigh. The group dispersed and Bridget stood to leave as well, though Vera quickly approached her. “Um, Bridget,” she began in a soft voice.

“Mm?” Bridget hummed. 

Vera offered her a brief, closed-lip smile, and looked her straight in the eyes as she explained.

It was a role reversal of sorts. Bridget was usually the one who established and maintained eye contact, and Vera had been so timid once. Yet it was Bridget who found herself looking down and away from her friend. Bridget was still embarrassed by her emotional collapse at home, and the fact that Vera had stayed and had talked with her until she fell asleep. Bridget had probably said too much about Franky and their lives together that she didn’t remember saying, just like she didn’t remember Vera leaving; Bridget had woken up on the couch with a blanket over her at four in the morning. She didn’t know how to thank Vera for it, and she was still walking around every day with an ache in her chest and a knot in her stomach. She felt fragile, shaky. If she looked into Vera’s gentle eyes she might cry, and that could not happen. She needed to be at Wentworth, she was certain of that, and thankfully so was Vera.

“Just so you know, I’ve shut down that business with Ferguson,” Vera said. 

“I appreciate that,” Bridget said. Her heart was beating quickly in her chest. She was so grateful. She was so glad that this was not a dressing-down, not in the middle of the staff room, not first thing in the morning. Vera was being more supportive than Bridget had expected. “And thank you for what you said to the Ombudsman,” Bridget added quietly. 

The best psychologist Wentworth has ever had, Vera had said to the older man. Vera said that Bridget’s dedication to the women, her professionalism, and her ethics were beyond par. Bridget was liked and respected by the women and the staff, and Franky Doyle was just one inmate who had benefited from regular private counselling sessions and the other activities Bridget oversaw. Ferguson’s statement was a work of fiction and there was no evidence to suggest this was anything more than a vexatious claim made by a former Governor who had certainly killed two inmates and who had an obvious bone to pick with Vera and Bridget. 

Vera had then gone on to state that Franky also was a model prisoner who had built a successful, functional life for herself outside of Wentworth over the past year. Franky had unfortunately been charged with murder, but she maintained her innocence and would be contesting those charges at trial. Franky was an intelligent woman who had matured greatly, and she seemed much calmer than when she was originally incarcerated. She was currently healthy, with no serious ongoing medical conditions, and her basic needs were being met.

Vera had then blatantly lied to the Ombudsman when she said she had never witnessed any inappropriate behaviour between Franky and Bridget. There had been counselling sessions in the lead-up to Franky’s parole, but these had all been clearly documented by Bridget, and Vera had produced Franky’s file and all of Bridget’s case notes. They demonstrated an ongoing therapeutic relationship and nothing more, she said. In fact, it was clear from Franky’s progress that Bridget was an asset to all of the women at Wentworth, and there should be no cause for concern.

That was the conclusion the Ombudsman reached even before the meeting ended. Bridget had gone back to her office and cried. She had felt equal parts grateful and guilty, and for all the crying she had done, it never made her feel any better. Bridget was coping, just. As she had sat in that meeting, feeling wounded while Vera had spoken on her behalf, Bridget had also decided to try to do what Vera and Franky had been telling her to do. She hoped that in time it proved to be the right decision, but she needed to articulate that to Vera, she owed it to her. 

“I’ve decided…to keep my distance from Franky,” she said. Her voice trailed off into an emotional whisper. She could not even say Franky’s name aloud or get through a simple sentence about her without tears welling in her tired eyes, and she knew that whether she succeeded was another matter entirely. She still couldn’t look a doubting Vera in the eyes, at least not until Vera spoke again, in a kind, supportive tone that drew Bridget back to her.

“You know a lot of women here rely on you,” she said. 

Yeah, yeah I do know that, Bridget thought as they watched each other. She nodded once. 

“Myself included,” Vera assured her, before she walked away. 

Bridget took a deep breath and spared a moment to acknowledge that truth as well. 

Of course it was all right that she had cried on Vera’s shoulder in a low moment, when figuratively speaking Vera had done the same many times, usually over a glass or two of red at the end of a long day. Of course it was acceptable that Vera spoke so confidently in Bridget’s defence in that meeting with the Ombudsman, when Bridget had always been Vera’s unwavering advocate. It had been Vera’s decision to lie, Bridget had not coerced her.

So Bridget needn’t be embarrassed or afraid of showing too much. She was struggling for reasons that Vera didn’t even fully understand, but she still had her friend’s full support and she was still in possession of her professional registration, and she was not going anywhere. 

Do you hear that, babe? Bridget just wished that Franky would one day let herself believe it.


	27. Franky

Allie was proving somewhat useful after all. Franky had given her the shifting spanner to hide just as the lockdown and cell toss was called, and she knew they hadn’t found it wrapped in the bandages on Allie’s arm, because no story to that effect had spread around the prison in the minutes after the lockdown ended. As soon as she could, Franky went straight to her. She found Allie lying in her bed with her arms and ankles crossed. She was waiting.

Franky was so fucking pleased that this had actually worked. 

“Lockdown’s over,” she declared with a smile.

“Yeah, I know,” Allie said. 

“So I want my shifter back.”

“What?” Allie asked without getting up. “No, ‘Oh thanks Allie, for risking a fucking fortnight in the Slot for me’.”

“I’m sorry,” Franky said softly with a roll of her eyes as she walked nearer to the bed and looked down at her. “There was no time to explain.”

“Well, there’s time now,” Allie said. 

Fuck, this woman was up in her business, but Franky didn’t trust Allie, and she couldn’t rely on anyone else to help get her out. She knew Bea had been in love with Allie, or something like that; it wasn’t like they’d had heaps of time to figure things out before Bea died, and Franky never got the chance to really talk to Bea about it, and Allie wasn’t playing the grieving widow, so who fucking knew what had gone on with them or what was going on with Allie now. But Franky did remember how Bea had thought maybe she had been played by Allie, so as if Franky was going to talk, when that was basically all she knew about her.

“Just give it back,” she said with a frustrated glare. 

“No,” Allie said simply. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Franky asked. 

“Then you don’t get your shifter back,” Allie said with a coy little smile.

“Bull-shit,” Franky declared. She took a step closer to the bed. “Come on, give it back.”

Allie crossed her arms over her chest and challenged her with her blue eyes, like a stubborn little kid. 

Right, Franky thought. We’re playing that game, are we? Franky climbed onto the bed, straddled her and grabbed her bandaged arm. Allie squealed and squirmed, she shouted, “Ow! Fuck! Get off!” Blah-blah-blah, Franky thought as she tried to stick her fingers underneath the bandages to yank out the shifter. “You’re hurting my arm!” Allie declared in a loud, high-pitched cry. Fuck, she was making a lot of noise. The cell door was wide fucking open. 

“I don’t care,” Franky said forcefully. 

“Get off! It’s not in there!”

“Where is it?” Franky asked. Her eyes bore urgently down into Allie’s as she leant over her. This was not a fucking joke, and Franky would tear this fucking cell apart if she had to. 

Allie stared at her, stubborn and coy. She challenged Franky again with an upwards tilt of her chin and a flash of, ‘you tell me’, in her eyes. 

“Do you want a Chinese burn?” Franky asked. Her frustration levels soared. She wanted that shifter back, dammit, and if Allie wanted to act like a child, she could suffer the consequence.

Allie spluttered and started laughing at Franky, loudly. Franky hated when people laughed at her like that. She had been laughed at by pretty blonde bitches her entire fucking childhood. 

“Fuck, I’m not kidding!” Franky insisted. She tried to sound forceful but at the same time she was better at understanding laughter as an adult than she had been as a kid, and she did grasp the difference between playful and menacing. Allie wasn’t menacing. Hell, the only reason her arm was bandaged was because she got herself in the middle of a fight to break it up and no one fucking listened to her, because she just didn’t have that mean-girl thing going on. 

When Allie just continued laughing, Franky still thought, ‘fuck it’. She grabbed her bandaged arm, the arm that had been so useful to her that day, and she twisted it with two hands, in opposite directions. It hurt, Allie screamed and wriggled around, but she was still laughing. 

Franky couldn’t help the laughter that started to bubble out of her chest. It was infectious, and fuck it, this had been a good twenty-four hours for her. Everything was working out exactly as she wanted it to, and it felt great to know that she had made decisions for herself and she was moving forwards, and maybe she could bring a bit of laughter back to herself and to her old friends. And new ones as well. If anyone else could do with a laugh, surely it was Allie. 

Yet as Franky’s laughter faded, she realised where she was, and she reminded herself what she was there for. She was in Allie’s cell, on her bed, on top of her, and they were laughing like nothing was wrong. 

This isn’t right, Franky thought. It isn’t fair to me, it isn’t fair to Bridget. How would Bridget feel, if she walked in and saw them both like this? She would feel cheated. It would hurt her.

Franky was done hurting Bridget. She was fucking done!

Bridget still had to go home every night – to their home – and she had to cook, shower and go to bed alone. She would have been heartbroken if she saw Franky having fun with Allie. You don’t belong here, she might say. Don’t act like it. Stay focused on your goal, on your dreams. Franky was sure that thanks to her, Bridget wasn’t having fun, so why should she?

Allie noticed the change in Franky. She didn’t know about Bridget – thank God, because it seemed she had a big fucking mouth – but her expression softened. Franky climbed off her, and Allie retrieved the shifting spanner from beneath her pillow and handed it to Franky.

“Thanks,” Franky said. She looked Allie in the eyes and took a breath. She had gotten carried away. Her hoodie was hanging awkwardly off her shoulders but she left it like that; it didn’t fit, it wasn’t meant for her. None of this was meant for her. “I appreciate what you did.” 

Franky went to leave, but Allie called to her just as Franky reached the door to the open cell.

“So are you gonna tell me or not?” Allie asked. 

“Nuh,” Franky said. After all, they’d shared a laugh on a good day, but nothing had changed.

*

‘If you’ve got a chance to get out of here you just grab it, you don’t even hesitate, you fucking see that chance even if it’s a long shot and you take that risk, cos you’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose.’

The advice Franky had given to Doreen about applying for her transfer repeated itself over and over in Franky’s head as she was led in to see the Governor. It was late at night and that evening Franky had cornered Will to ask, yet again, to please see Vera. Yet again he obliged. 

The other offices in that part of the prison administration building were in darkness, locked down for the night, including Bridget’s office; she was home. It sucked that Franky wasn’t, but at least if she had to be stuck at Wentworth, Vera and Will were stuck there alongside her.

“You’ll have to make this quick, it’s almost lockdown,” Vera said as Franky sat. 

“Oh yeah, thanks for seeing me,” Franky said in a quiet, understanding voice. Her expression was serious and thoughtful. “I’m going crazy working in laundry, all that politics is doing my head in.” 

“Well I have thought the laundry isn’t ideal for a prisoner of your potential,” Vera said. She laughed a bit as she leant back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Like Allie, Franky knew Vera wasn’t laughing at her, more at the situation that they found themselves in, and even though Franky did not like being called a ‘prisoner’ – for fuck’s sake she hadn’t even been formally committed to stand trial yet – she did appreciate the subtle compliment.

“So can I switch details?” she asked.

“Well you’ve helped fellow inmates with their legal issues from time to time,” Vera said. “How about we make that official? Your own work unit, in the education centre, as prisoner advocate.”

Fuck, Franky thought. That actually sounded pretty good, it was basically what she had been doing for Legal Relief, but she had other plans, and Plan B did not involve sticking around to help all the other women with their bullshit, no-hope appeals. She plastered a disinterested, stupid expression on her face. She was aware that what she was about to say would only confirm to Vera what Vera had always thought about Franky; she was wasted potential. 

So Franky didn’t need to sound too smart for it, then.

“Nuh. I was more thinkin’, uh, working in the outdoor unit, I’m just desperate to get into the open air.”

Vera could not have looked more surprised and confused as she said, “Oh. Really?” 

Franky did not blame her, she barely recognised her own voice. Franky was tired, Vera looked tired, they were just going through the motions here, only Vera didn’t quite know it. 

“Yeah, I feel like I’m really cooped up in here,” Franky said. She spoke quickly and ran her words together. “-not walking around like a normal person I feel like I’m getting anxious.”

“Well surely that’s not a surprise,” Vera said. 

“Why, cos I’m back in prison after a taste of freedom?” Franky asked. Bit harsh, she thought, but Vera was nothing if not forthright.

“Yes,” she said.

“I haven’t been convicted yet, Miss Bennett,” Franky reminded her. She was still the same person who had met Vera and Will at the cemetery to visit Bea’s headstone, she was still the same person who just weeks earlier had been deeply in love with and committed to Vera’s best friend, and vice versa. These bogus charges, the fact she was back in teal, even her awful fight with Bridget and what Franky had done to her – if Vera even knew anything about it – it didn’t undo everything good that Franky had achieved. She was still the same good person. Franky hoped Bridget might understand that one day, but maybe it was too much to hope Vera would as well. Franky could try, though. She ditched the blank expression, dull voice and poor grammar, and looked directly into Vera’s eyes. I’m still me, she tried to say. 

“I am aware of that, Doyle,” Vera said. She softened somewhat, but Franky wasn’t done.

“And I plan to prove my innocence in court,” Franky told her. She demanded with her voice and her eyes that Vera understand this. She was not guilty. She was a good person. She was smart and capable. She did not deserve to be punished for something that she did not do, and she was going to fight. She would not allow herself to languish. She would not lose her life.

Vera’s eyes narrowed and it was because Franky had let her see all of this, albeit briefly. 

“All right, you can start on the grounds detail as of tomorrow,” Vera conceded. She looked back into Franky’s eyes and fuck, she looked kind. Vera was a good person too, she was always working late and when Franky asked to see her, she always said yes. Franky didn’t know if that was because of her and Bridget, or because Vera was just a good Governor who really put her heart and soul into doing her best work, or maybe she even respected Franky as a person, but Franky appreciated her kindness, and the trust in her she was about to abuse. 

I’m sorry, she thought.

“Thanks,” she said. She got up to leave and avoided Vera’s kind but nonetheless wise and discerning eyes from that point onwards. She didn’t want to show the Governor too much. 

*

Franky was pleased by her first shift on grounds detail. It had been peaceful and uneventful, she got to get her hands dirty and she avoided all the political bullshit of the yard and the laundry. She had also been able to check out a few different areas of the prison that she had never really gotten to see up close before. So far, so good. Plan B was taking shape and while she was eager for some quiet time, she was in a good mood when she returned to her cell. She thought she might even lie down for a sleep. It wasn’t the same as taking an afternoon nap at home with her head in Bridget’s lap while she read a psychology journal, but it couldn’t hurt.

Allie was waiting for her in her cell. Fuck, were they best friends now or something? Jesus!

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Franky asked. “Are you stalking me now?”

“I know that you got something going on.”

Big fucking whoop-de-doo, Franky thought. She stared at Allie plainly and spread her arms.

“Everyone’s got something going on.” She pointed at Allie and smiled coyly as she said, “Everyone’s working some angle,” because it was pretty fucking clear Allie was as well. Or had Allie forgotten all about Ferguson and that big plan she apparently had, to kill the Freak?

Maybe she had given up on that because Franky said she needed her alive, but Franky didn’t know that for sure, and unlike Allie, she didn’t expect her to spill her guts about it either.

“No, it’s more than that,” Allie said. “I can tell it’s something big.”

You reckon? Franky thought as her eyes went wide. What did Allie want, a fucking medal? 

“Okay fine,” Franky said. “Now fuck off and let me get changed.”

Allie didn’t move, and it occurred to Franky that she was standing exactly where Bridget had been standing the last time she was in her cell too, before she left in tears and Franky fucking bawled. Franky didn’t want a repeat, but frankly didn’t care enough about Allie and didn’t trust her enough to go there. She couldn’t express herself to this girl, that was way too risky. What was it though, with people coming into her cell uninvited? Did she need to put a sign on the door? It was meant to be maximum security, not fucking access-all-areas! 

“You were there for me when…” Allie trailed off and her downcast expression took Franky back to Bea, and the day Franky visited Allie in hospital to tell her about Bea’s death. Franky did not remember much of it, to be honest, and she would have been surprised if Allie did; the woman had been brought back from the verge of brain death. That Allie was even standing in Franky’s cell talking to her, fully functional and without any lasting injuries was some kind of fucking miracle, and she had gone into shock after finding out Bea was dead. 

Franky thought that Allie remembered her being there, but probably nothing she said, and if that was why she was following Franky around, if she wanted a re-cap, then she was going to have to look elsewhere because Franky could have been spouting Dr Seuss for all she knew. 

Franky only remembered the shocked look on Bridget’s face when she got home the day of the murder, the same day Franky took the gun that was used to kill Mike off of Shane, and she remembered trudging back into the house after visiting Allie to crawl into bed and cry. She had cried about everything, for ages, because she had been home and she had felt safe. Bridget had gotten home a few hours later and had laid down with her, and she’d cried too. 

“Whatever it is you’re doing I want to help you,” Allie was saying. Franky sighed. Fuck. 

“Well you can’t help,” Franky told her. She pleaded with Allie in her tone and with her eyes to please just understand and to back the fuck off. Franky was so sick of everyone trying to help her; they couldn’t help her, and Allie didn’t even have a right to demand that Franky let her help. Bridget had that right, and Franky had fucking attacked her for trying to assert it. 

“Why not?” Allie asked, in a whiny, demanding voice that was far too fucking loud. 

“Shh!” Franky hissed as she stepped closer to her and pointed a finger into Allie’s face. “Keep your voice down, do you understand? Or I’m dead.” Her eyes slid over her shoulder, to check that no one was loitering just beyond the open cell door. This wasn’t a game, this wasn’t some test of a barely-there friendship or of their joint loyalty to Bea or any of that shit. 

Bea. Franky glanced at Allie and allowed herself the rarity of a quick second guess. Bea had trusted Allie with her heart, that was special. Franky knew what that felt like for Bea and how frightening that was. If Franky could go to Bea for advice now, Bea probably would nod and say, ‘Yeah, you can trust her,’ in that low, smoky voice that Franky missed so fucking much.

But if that was true, then it was also true that Franky couldn’t risk Allie getting hurt for her, Bea wouldn’t want that either. This was something that Franky had to do alone. Her choice. 

“No, you can’t help me.”

Franky wasn’t sure what gave it away, or at what point Allie figured everything out, but all of a sudden her expression changed and she asked, “You’re gonna escape?” like she already knew. Okay fine, Franky thought. If she was so fucking clever, Franky could explain, a bit.

“Listen-”

“Fuck, Franky, that is crazy,” Allie stated seriously, but again in a voice that was too loud.

“I want to clear my name.” Franky would keep saying it until she achieved it or she was dead. 

“You will get caught!” Allie shouted in Franky’s face. 

Franky’s heart lurched. Her stomach turned and she got angry, because Allie’s survival skills sucked! How was she alive? Had Kaz and Bea protected her? Franky knew immediately that they had, both of them. Allie was naïve, this was still new to her, but she still should have known better than to be yelling about this shit right next to an open cell door. Voices carried inside Wentworth, and anyone could walk past and overhear every fucking word she said! 

Franky knew she hadn’t cared about that with Bridget – or maybe she had, because if Franky had been caught with her hands all over Bridget she would have been put in the Slot and that would have confirmed all the shit that had been in her head about how she was worthless, all the shit that Bridget refused to say to her even after Franky tore her shirt apart – but she cared now. This was her chance to get out and she wasn’t going to let Allie inadvertently ruin it for her just because she had a big fucking mouth and didn’t know how to use her inside voice!

Finally, Allie whispered, “You are gonna get caught, and it’ll make it a whole lot worse for your case.”

Franky rolled her eyes. No, it wouldn’t actually. Her escaping had nothing to do with whether or not the Crown could establish the elements of first degree murder – intentional killing – and whether or not they could establish beyond all reasonable doubt the facts of the case to convince a jury that she’d had the intention to kill Mike and that she had done it. If she was convicted, an escape wouldn’t mean anything either; the sentence was life. It didn’t matter whether she got twenty-five years with parole or life without parole, her life would be over. 

“If the police find the real killer-” Allie began, but Franky cut her off. Didn’t she get it?

“The police won’t find Mike Pennisi’s killer, they’re fucking not looking!” she exclaimed. Franky spread her arm out towards the small window of her cell. She could barely see the sky through it. “But the killer is out there,” she added with wide eyes and a firm voice that still couldn’t mask genuine panic. Again, she silently pleaded with Allie to try to understand.

Franky had been faking the whole, ‘I’m feeling a bit anxious, Governor’, thing with Vera the night before, but she was anxious about this. Plan B wasn’t happening now just because she was innocent, there was also that one other equally motivating reason, in that whoever killed Mike was out there, sending her mail to rub their freedom her face. That meant it mattered to them that she was the one in prison. So what the fuck was going on that Franky didn’t know about? What if someone got hurt? Tessa, or Bridget? They were her family, they meant the fucking world to her! And Franky had such a bad feeling about that. What if she lost them? 

Franky wasn’t sure there was enough time to stop something from happening, and even though she didn’t know what that something was yet, she knew she was wasting time in Wentworth. She needed more.


	28. Bridget

Allie Novak had requested an appointment. Bridget was sitting at her desk to review Allie’s information and her file, because she had never spoken to Allie in a therapeutic context before. It was no surprise to Bridget that Allie might need to talk to someone, even her file reflected that in recent months she had been through an incredible amount of stress and pain. She had been hospitalised in a critical condition after an overdose, Bea had been killed, and by all accounts Allie had been the woman who Bea had fallen in love with, for whom Bridget had advised Bea to, ‘fuck the labels’. Allie had been convicted as part of Kaz’s crew on the outside, the Red Right Hand. She had a history of drug use, but it was unclear whether her anger towards men extended as far as it did for Kaz. Allie might have simply needed a friend. 

Yet as far as Bridget was aware, Allie was not really aligned with a Wentworth crew. She and Kaz had drifted apart, possibly the result of Allie and Bea beginning a sincere love affair; those bastards wrecked friendships out in the real world too, all the fucking time. These days, Allie sat more with Liz, Boomer, Doreen – Bea’s old crew – but Bridget wasn’t sure the bond was there in the same way. Doreen had sat in Bridget’s office and talked about how Liz and Boomer and even Franky were her family; Bridget didn’t think Allie would describe them like that, or that they would automatically include her in their definition of the word, if asked.

So Bridget was keen to speak to her. If she was more isolated than the rest, she needed help.

“Knock-knock,” Will said as he simultaneously knocked on her door and pushed it open a few inches. “Morning Bridget,” he said with a steady gaze. “Sorry, I know you’re busy-”

“Will,” Bridget greeted with wide, waiting eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Just wanted you to know in case you gotta find her, Doyle’s moved to H1. Smith’s cell.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Bridget said. Will shut her door and Bridget sat back in her chair to think. Bea’s cell had been left just as it had been on the day she died, as a memorial to her. With Franky moving in, had Allie offered to pack those precious possessions away? Had Franky been the one to step up and do that instead? That could be a sad and lonely job. 

It was the catalyst for Allie’s visit, perhaps. 

When Allie did arrive, she was visibly upset. Bridget knew immediately that the grief had finally hit her. Franky had always said that when she told Allie about Bea in the hospital, Allie shut down, went blank. Franky sat with her for a long time and told her some stories but Allie didn’t say much, she didn’t cry. Franky had come home and cried, and when Bridget got home later that night, Franky had sobbed into Bridget’s breast for an hour in their bed. 

Allie still hadn’t cried much, that was clear. She had refused all of Bridget’s efforts to meet with her since being released from hospital, but Bridget knew all about grief, and she could understand the pain Allie felt at Bea’s loss. It was normal, natural, and there was no need to hide it or to feel shame in it. There was no point keeping secrets that could help her, either. 

Allie sat down in one of Bridget’s chairs and said that she just wanted to know more about Bea, because she missed her. Her voice was shaking, her face was flushed, and tears trickled down her cheeks as she explained. She had found drawings of Bea’s that were all of her, as though Bea the artist had been studying Allie’s face to try to capture her on those pages of her sketchbook. Allie had almost convinced herself that Bea hadn’t really been in love with her, that their relationship had been so brief it meant very little, but that wasn’t true, was it?

She asked Bridget the question, and Bridget decided she was no longer bound by confidence. Bea would have wanted Allie to know.

“What I can tell you,” Bridget said in a calm and even tone. “Is that she came to see me, to talk about you. I think she was confused, but it was very clear to me that she was deeply in love.”

Allie bowed her head and sobbed. Bridget usually resisted physical contact with the women but she wanted to comfort this young woman; Bea had died. She stood, leant over and put a hand to Allie’s shoulder. Bridget walked to her desk for her box of tissues and returned to offer one to Allie, as Allie apologised. She accepted one of the tissues and dabbed at her eyes.

“Sorry.”

Her apology was completely unnecessary, yet Bridget also apologised when she cried, most people did. Children were often conditioned to be tearless adults – do not cry, that is weak, do not let other people see you cry, you will be judged – and maybe the latter was always true, but apologising for her grief was one thing Bridget was making a conscious effort to stop. She did not always succeed; if Bridget cried in front of Vera again she would probably still automatically say sorry just like Allie was automatically apologising to her for a second time. 

Yet Bridget was changing how she thought about her fear and grief, and it had changed how she felt towards it, and that had helped. Bridget was sleeping and eating again, she felt safer. 

Allie wasn’t in that place yet, however. She was still holding onto the pain. 

“It’s okay,” Bridget whispered. 

“I don’t mean to come here and just blubber,” Allie said once Bridget sat back down. “I just can’t handle the thought that she’s not coming back.”

“I know the sadness feels like it will last forever but it will get easier,” Bridget said. She had said the same words to thousands of clients over her working life, but she hadn’t really understood it until very recently. Time was so important, but Allie could do more than wait.

“And don’t block it out,” Bridget advised. “You know, let yourself feel it, that’s how we heal. Don’t be tempted to block it out with drugs.”

There was no escaping the fact that Allie had a history of drug use. Most of the time Bridget wouldn’t know it to look at her. With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and youthful skin, Allie looked like the typical ‘girl next door’, maybe even from a good home before she ended up on the streets addicted to heroin. Her skin wasn’t scarred from picking at it like a meth addict and her brain hadn’t been fucked over by any drug-induced psychosis; she was clean, for now, but grief and fear were powerful motivators and they did not always motivate wisely.

“I promised her I’d never use again,” Allie assured Bridget. 

Sadly, Bridget had heard this before. Promises to loved ones meant fuck all when addicts were at their most vulnerable. Some were strong enough to hold onto those promises, but unfortunately most were not; they lacked the necessary support, or other circumstances in their lives made it tougher. Only time would reveal what the future held in store for Allie.

Bridget was reminded of an old, beloved memory.

‘We went through a lot of wine tonight, Gidget,’ Franky had said to her, many months earlier.

‘You mean I went through a lot of wine?’ Bridget had asked as she sprawled back in bed. Franky had crawled over her on her hands and knees. She had joined their lips in a soft kiss. 

‘Ahuh,’ she admitted, somewhat shy about bringing it up. Yet Bridget had known why it was important for Franky to talk to her about it. Franky’s mother had been an evil, bitter drunk.

‘Don’t worry, baby,’ Bridget said with a smile. ‘I’m happy. I don’t drink nearly as much alone as I do with you. Are you worried?’

‘Narr, I just…’ She had scrunched up her face and rolled her eyes. She had barely been out of prison two weeks. ‘I just dunno what’s normal, I guess. You’re okay? You promise?’

‘I promise, beautiful,’ Bridget had told her sincerely, as her eyes had filled with tears. Franky had made an emotional noise in the back of her throat before crashing her lips down on top of Bridget’s, and it was because Bridget had called her beautiful, something no one had before.

Bridget could have become a right old soak in the past several weeks, but knowing that act would destroy Franky and it would destroy their relationship, she hadn’t even gotten close.

Alcohol wasn’t heroin, though, and Allie was at greater risk. Heroin was seductive and it just so happened that Wentworth was suffering from an influx; it was everywhere, it was potent. 

“Good because being clean for a while makes it very easy to OD,” Bridget reminded her gently. Allie nodded, she knew that as well as any other user who had gotten off the gear. “You’d know that from recent experience, right?” Bridget asked. She hated to phrase it that way; Bea had never believed that the hot shot that landed Allie in hospital had been her own doing, and even Vera believed that Allie’s story about Ferguson’s involvement was true. Still, her lack of tolerance for the drug had contributed to her severe reaction. She’d almost died. 

“Yeah, I do,” Allie assured her. She reached for the tissue box again and offered Bridget a small smile, which Bridget returned in support. 

“I hear Franky Doyle is moving into Bea’s cell,” Bridget said. “How do you feel about that?”

“Yeah,” Allie replied. She took another tissue and cleaned her face. “It’s all right, they’re friends…were, they were friends. I’d rather Franky be there than anyone else. She’s nice.”

“Franky’s a good person.”

“Yeah, she’s been good to me,” Allie said. She licked her lips and looked at Bridget seriously, as though she wanted to say something else, but decided against it. “Um, can I go?”

“Yes,” Bridget assured her with a closed-lip smile. “And you can come back, any time.”

“Thank you,” Allie said. She held up the tissue box and laughed a bit. “I’ll put this back.”

Bridget nodded. She remained in her seat as she watched Allie stand, return the tissues to her desk, and leave. 

*

It was only when Bridget went to leave as well, and she found herself stuck on one side of a reinforced glass door that wouldn’t open, that she noticed her swipe card was not on her hip. 

Oh shit, she thought as she hurriedly back-tracked towards her office. Had she even put it on her hip? The cardinal rule of Wentworth – do not leave your swipe card unattended – and she had royally fucked it up. She had been having such a calm and peaceful day as well! But in all likelihood she had left her pass on her desk. No big deal, she would just go back and get it. 

It wasn’t there. 

Bridget’s heart began to race as she searched her desk multiple times, the desktop and all of the drawers. She emptied her handbag and then put everything back in when that also proved futile. She dug her hands in between the cushions on both of her therapy chairs, both the one she had been sitting on as well as the one Allie had sat on, and she got down onto her hands and knees and looked under the chairs; she stretched her slender arms beneath them to brush across the floor, hoping to make contact with that lanyard and its attached, hard plastic card. 

Nada. 

“Shit!” Bridget hissed. She stood in the centre of her office and performed a slow, three-sixty-degree turn to try to combat the feelings of panic and guilt and fear that suddenly overwhelmed her. If one of the women found that card they could go anywhere, they could do anything. Bridget had access to every single wing of the prison; every unit, every office.

Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK!

Bridget took a deep breath to calm herself. There had to be a logical explanation. If her card wasn’t in her office, she had to have put it down somewhere else, and the only other place she had been that day within the same secure wing was the staff room. Bridget hurried there. 

The room was empty because it was a busy time of day. Thank Christ, Bridget thought as she went straight to where she had sat that morning to enjoy a quiet coffee. She did not want to have to explain this to anyone until she was absolutely sure the card was lost. Had she put her card down on the coffee table beside her mug while she drank? Maybe she just forgot about it, after getting up to rinse out her mug. Maybe she had returned to her office and simply left it there, hidden among the array of magazines people sometimes brought in to share. 

Bridget was rifling through the magazines to no avail when Linda walked in. 

“Lost something?” she asked.

Fuck, Bridget thought. Yes.

“I think I dropped my swipe card,” she admitted.

“That’s bad,” Linda said immediately.

No shit, Bridget thought. She went to check one of the other coffee tables.

“Yeah, I know,” she said without looking up. “I don’t suppose anyone’s handed one in, have they?”

Bridget looked up then, and Linda smirked at her, bemused by the question. As if, Bridget!

“Yeah right,” Bridget mumbled. She flipped through some more magazines, but it was useless, her card wasn’t there. Okay, Plan B. She could fix this. She stood and walked back to Linda, who had sat down at the table for an energy drink and a sandwich. Bridget would be interrupting her break, but this was important. “Um, would you be able to um, check to see where it was last used so I can find it before the situation turns to shit?” Bridget asked. 

“If it hasn’t already, you mean,” Linda said. Sometimes she could just be so fucking direct!

“Oh Linda,” Bridget said as her heart sank. She so hoped that wasn’t true. “I’d really appreciate your help.”

Linda sighed. Officers hated having their breaks interrupted, Bridget knew that because they sat in the staff room and bitched about it all the time. They worked long shifts, breaks mattered, and she understood, she really did, but she could not have been any more sincere in her request. Linda was tough but not heartless. They both knew how serious this could be. 

“All right, come on,” Linda said. She stood and took one bite of her sandwich. “Remember what happened to the last person that lost their swipe card.”

“Yeah, right,” Bridget mumbled as she followed Linda out of the staff room towards the security room. Bridget remembered the story all too well. She hadn’t even been working at Wentworth when it happened, but when she had started her job the incident had still been fresh in everyone’s minds. Vera had spoken of it with her, and of course Franky had told her everything that she had been able to piece together from Bea about those events as well. 

The loss of Fletch’s swipe card had set off a chain of events that resulted in an unmitigated PR disaster for the prison, quite frankly. Bea Smith had stolen that swipe card with the help of Jess Warner – who Ferguson had later killed the night Franky also almost died in the fire Ferguson started – and Bea had used that stolen card to access the mail room. She had removed a Stanley knife, which she had then used in her fight against Franky for Top Dog. 

That knife could have killed Franky, though that had never been Bea’s intention. She had cut Franky though; that fight had served two purposes. One, the position of power it had given Bea in their dual resulted in Franky surrendering Top Dog status. Two, Bea had then slit her own wrists, she had not been handcuffed in the hospital as a result of those injuries, and she had escaped. On the outside, she collected the gun she’d sent to Liz – who had been on parole, and so she’d fucked Liz’s parole as part of this too – and with Will on her tail, Bea murdered the young man who got her daughter hooked on heroin, the man who effectively murdered Debbie. It had been a premeditated plan from the beginning, and stealing that officer’s swipe card had been one of the first steps in this much grander plan of Bea Smith’s, to escape and to kill. Bridget could not help wondering if anyone else had similar designs.

“Here we go,” Linda said as they entered the wing’s security room. She sat at one of the computers and Bridget leant over her shoulder. “What’s your ID number?”

Bridget recited it from memory, and watched Linda type it into the system. 

“Has it been used yet?” Bridget asked. In a weird way, Bridget hoped that it had. If it merely said that her card had been last used by herself that morning, to enter the building, then that would not provide Bridget with any answers and she would need to tell Vera, they would need to lock the prison down immediately and perform another cell toss. No officer would rest until that card was found, and Bridget could be suspended for being so careless. Vera had already given her so many second chances. At least if it had been used already, Bridget could try to track it down; she would run there if she had to, she would fight her own battle for it. 

“Ahuh,” Linda said when the results revealed themselves. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Bridget asked. She leant closer so she could read the information on the screen. Fuck, I might need glasses, she thought as the figures blurred. Or maybe it was just a mix of stress and relief obscuring her vision. She could see that her card had been used once already, to open a door marked by a letter and a number. “Where is that?” she asked.

“This was only minutes ago, Bridget,” Linda said. “Good timing.” She pulled up a map of the prison and pointed to the door that had been opened. “That,” she explained. “Is the garden detail yard, and the gate blocks access to the transfer yard and the garage where the Brawler and other vans are serviced. No way could anyone scale fences there without being caught, but there’s a whole lotta tools in that garage. Remember the missing shifter? Someone could be trying to dump it, or add to a collection.” She smirked and added, “Franky Doyle’s on garden detail these days, isn’t she? She was in the kitchen the other day, with the plumber-”

“I’m going there, right now,” Bridget assured her. She went to leave, but suddenly realised she couldn’t follow through. She was trapped. “Shit, I can’t get out. Can I borrow your card?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Linda said with a dry glare directed upwards at Bridget. 

“Please? I’ll bring it right back.”

“You fucking better,” Linda said. She sighed and handed Bridget her pass. “Don’t fuck up.” 

“Thank you, Linda. Please don’t say anything, not yet, not unless this turns to shit.”

“I won’t,” Linda said. They glanced briefly at each other and Linda grimaced. “Be careful.”

Bridget plastered a resolute, determined expression on her face as she nodded. She understood Linda’s thought process in linking Franky to this, but Bridget hadn’t seen Franky that day, and the only person she had seen who could possibly have had access both to Bridget’s card and to Franky to give her the card was…Allie. Fuck, Allie swiped the card.

Suddenly everything was clear. Bridget had walked into her office and put her card on her desk. She had not picked it up again. The tissue box had been beside it, where it always was. Allie put the box back, she had volunteered to put the box back as though she had seen the pass there on her way in, and she probably had. Bridget had stupidly forgotten that her pass was vulnerable there. Allie had taken it, but Bridget was going to get it back before either Allie or Franky could do anything dangerous. Bridget would not be used by them that way.

The fucking hide!


	29. Franky

Franky could not believe the wheel-nuts were so fucking tight! Her hand was cramped and aching by the time she had used the shifter to loosen the last nut on the front-left wheel of the Brawler. Crouched inside the garage that she had used Bridget’s stolen swipe card to access, Franky lifted the hood of her jumper. It was minimal cover but it made her feel hidden. Safer.

Getting from the garden to the garage had been easier than getting back would be, and Franky did not know if anyone had noticed her missing. They might have already reported her to the screws, if the screws themselves hadn’t noticed. Franky barely knew the other women on the detail, she told no one of her plan; they owed her nothing. There could be screws on the other side of that door waiting for her to emerge, but then again, maybe no one had noticed. Franky wasn’t actually sure how long this had taken. It felt like an hour, but was likely only minutes.

All she needed was to get partway down the road in that van on the way to her committal hearing, and when they realised the wheel was wobbly, they would stop the van, call for a replacement, and she could make a run for it. She would run as fast as she could with her handcuffs on, and she would try to get to…well…by a process of elimination, she would go to the only place she could think of that might keep her safe for a short amount of time. Franky could not go home, that would implicate Bridget, and Franky had already gone far enough in asking Allie to steal her access-all-areas card. Franky could not go to her dad because if he was charged with harbouring a fugitive then Tessa could end up in foster care, without a sister or a dad looking out for her; Franky would never let that happen. She could not go to her parole officer, they were mates and she did not want him to be charged either.

So the plan was to go to Legal Relief. They would all turn her in but she might be allowed to sit at a computer and work for a while, especially if she got the chance to look Strathairn or Fessler in the eyes and plead with them to help. Franky wanted to look up the shit she had asked Imogen to look up. Imogen had not gotten back to her about Mike’s beneficiaries yet, and Franky knew she could find that information herself, handcuffed. She had to find that information, dammit! It was the only idea she had, it was the only plan she could think of.

Franky stood from her crouch. She dumped the shifter in a nearby bin and pressed herself close to the door to swipe Bridget’s card. Sorry Gidget, she thought as the panel beeped its permission and the lock on the door automatically clicked open. Franky wondered if Bridget had noticed that her card was missing. If she had been in her office with inmates coming to her she might not have noticed, but if she had? She would be desperate to find it. Distraught.

Franky would get the card back to her. She had no further use for it and she would make sure it got back to Bridget as soon as she got back to General. She did not want Bridget to panic.

Franky took a quick breath to settle her nerves before pushing the door open. She would need to be quick. She had to make it back across the transfer yard and through the gate to get back to the gardens, and she had to do it without being seen. She would have just seconds to run.

She ran right into Bridget. 

Franky did not even get the door open all the way before Bridget barged her way in. She forced Franky back inside the garage. Shit! So Bridget knew her card was missing, then. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bridget asked in a desperate hiss. 

Franky’s stomach dropped into her guts as she stared at Bridget, wide-eyed and blank. Bridget was demanding she explain but Franky had no words. She had no idea what to say. 

They stood there silently and stared at one another for long seconds. Franky bit her bottom lip. Neither of them looked away. Franky’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. 

Franky and Bridget hadn’t actually spoken since their fight in her cell. She had not been this close to Bridget since she had pushed her away, since she’d ripped her shirt and groped her. Franky wanted to touch her so fucking badly, and not roughly, but gently. Fuck, she wanted to take Bridget’s face in her hands and kiss her. Those feelings hadn’t gone away, no matter how hard Franky had tried to make them disappear. Bridget meant the fucking world to her.

“My office,” Bridget said. It broke their shared silence. Her blue eyes were tracking left and right as they searched Franky’s eyes for an explanation that Franky didn’t know how to give.

Franky pressed her lips together and nodded. At least the walk to Bridget’s office would give her time to think of an explanation. She did not want to clue Bridget in to Plan B, because that would put Bridget in an impossible position and Franky would never ask Bridget to compromise her own professional ethics in that way; Bridget would be bound to report her.

“Can I have my card back, please,” Bridget said. Her expression was steeled, her jaw was tight, and she held her right hand out expectantly, palm facing up and fingers outstretched. 

That is one tense hand, Franky thought. She slowly lowered the card into Bridget’s palm and watched Bridget’s fingers close protectively over that card. It would not leave her sight again.

The door to the transfer yard had locked when it closed behind Bridget, and so Bridget used her own card to unlock it a second time, so that they both could leave. She pushed the door open with the hand holding her card, while the other reached back. She did not touch Franky, they had not touched since that awful afternoon in Franky’s cell, when Franky had touched too much, but Bridget certainly used that hand powerfully, to gesture for Franky to heel.

Franky said nothing as they walked across the transfer yard and back through the first gate that Franky had breached. She trailed slightly behind Bridget with her head down and her hood still raised to protect herself. She did not want to meet anyone’s eyes in case they were laughing at her. The women were still in the gardens, working, but they barely reacted when Bridget returned with Franky. Maybe because Bridget was obviously with her? There were no catcalls, no one clapped or jeered the way they would have in the exercise yard. Odd.

Yet Franky did not care that she hadn’t gotten attention for this, it hadn’t been a stunt to show off how cool or brave she was. It meant more to Franky than that, and she felt sick that she’d been busted by Bridget. There was so much Franky wanted to tell her, but this wasn’t the way, it wasn’t a scenario she imagined, it wasn’t the right time; she hadn’t fixed anything yet! 

Maybe she never would, though. Maybe that was the problem. 

Franky followed Bridget into the prison, and they hesitated at each gate or door for Bridget to swipe her card. Bridget was clearly holding two plastic cards and at each check-point she took her time, she always waited until Franky was directly beside her. It was as though every time she swiped her card to usher them both one step closer to her secure office, Bridget was reminding Franky what Franky had stolen from her, and she was reclaiming her power. 

Franky was okay with that. She never wanted Bridget to be powerless, she never wanted to put Bridget at risk, or to make her feel any more vulnerable than she already was at work. Franky had worried about her every single day while she was on parole and she still worried about her every single day. At least now that Franky was back, if something did happen to her, she could be there quickly. She could be at Bridget’s side, they both would want that. 

“Wait here,” Bridget stated as they passed a security room, then stopped. “I mean it.” 

Franky stopped and said nothing as Bridget disappeared into the room. Bridget went in with two security passes, and she emerged with one. The significance of Bridget holding two passes suddenly dawned on a wide-eyed Franky. Of course Bridget had needed someone else’s help to find her security pass! They would have looked up its last clearance point on a computer, and Bridget wouldn’t know how to do any of that shit, she wouldn’t have access. And of course Bridget had then needed that person’s own pass to reach the garage so quickly!

Shit, Franky thought. Who else knew what had just happened? That could be a risk.

“Whose card was that?” Franky asked. They were the first words she’d said to Bridget since, ‘I’m trying to get you off like a fucking crim!’ and they weren’t even close to an apology.

“None of your business,” Bridget snapped. She picked up the pace in the quest to reach her office, and Franky struggled to keep up even on her longer legs, which felt heavy and weak. 

Franky wanted to sit down. If Bridget was taking her back to her office so they could sit and talk, Franky would not object. In fact, if home and bed was not an option, then what Franky wanted most of all was to curl up on one of the comfortable armchairs that Bridget used for therapy. She wanted to close her eyes and fall asleep in a place like home where she felt safe and settled, and where she could relax and recharge. Franky had used up so much precious energy in recent days, even in just this one day; as relieved as she was that she’d successfully loosened the Brawler’s wheel-nuts, she did not think she had any gas left in her own fuel tank. 

Franky wanted to go home to sleep. She wanted Bridget to hug her. She was so fucking tired! 

“Get in,” Bridget said in a firm voice. She pushed her office door open and Franky sighed. Bridget did not sound like a woman who wanted anything to do with her. She was pissed off and she had every right to be fucking ropable. Franky had used her, again, and she deserved to finally bear the brunt of Bridget’s anger. A hug would be asking far too fucking much.

Franky stood in front of Bridget’s desk as Bridget walked in behind her, shut the door, and chucked her pass onto the table with a light clatter. Franky stared at it as it lay there between them, on the desk that was between them. She was back in that ‘inmate’ place and it sucked.

She glanced at Bridget, as Bridget shut the blinds that ran the length of the internal window.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t report you,” Bridget said. It was an offer, of sorts.

Franky’s first thought was, ‘Go ahead, report me, drag me to the Governor, what do I care?’ 

Don’t be stupid, another part of her said. You care. You love her. You want to be with her.

It wasn’t the time for that, though. Bridget wasn’t about to say it back, not after everything Franky had put her through since the last time they had stood in her office, holding on for dear fucking life. Franky had really fucked up since then, and Bridget deserved more than Franky trying to emotionally blackmail her by trying on the, ‘I love you’ spiel. That was low.

She pressed her lips together to stop herself blurting it out. She pouted and shrugged. What else could she say? She had to take the emotion out of this situation, out of this relationship. 

“I’m a good root?” she suggested in a hard, defensive voice. Her whole self felt empty and she felt sick to her stomach as she watched Bridget’s face completely open up in surprise.

“What the fuck?” Bridget asked. Her voice cracked and those stunned eyes that were so full of emotion challenged Franky to revise her suggestion. Do you want to rethink that, baby? They never spoke about their sex life like that. Sex, fucking, making love, but never rooting. 

Franky shook her head a bit and looked back down at Bridget’s pass. Bridget could talk now. 

“You think this is funny, do you?” Bridget asked. 

Franky watched as Bridget stepped towards her desk. They had fought before, Franky knew Bridget wasn’t done and there was no point speaking until she had something useful to say. 

Bridget looked into Franky’s eyes. She picked up her pass and held it out between them. 

“Not to mention getting Novak to do your dirty work,” she continued. Tears were filling her eyes and her voice shook. “What if someone else had caught you with my card?” 

My card. She enunciated that first word, she emphasised that possession. My office. My card. 

Franky had taken so much from her, not just in stealing her card but in falling in love with her in the first place. They had put their lives together, but they were still two different people, and it was hard, it hurt to try to lead separate lives again. They still knew each other so damn well, and because of that, Franky had just risked so much of Bridget’s own life. She wished she could give it all back. Franky just wanted her to be okay, she didn’t want her to get hurt.

“I could lose my job!” Bridget exclaimed, as though Franky wasn’t aware, for fuck’s sake.

“Yeah but they didn’t, did they?” Franky shot back in a firm, stubborn voice. This was not a big deal. She wasn’t caught, the card was safe. Bridget was making a big deal out of nothing!

“You’re compromising me now expecting me to cover for you!” Bridget insisted. 

Fuck, she was crying. Franky could hear it in her voice even though no tears had yet fallen. Franky couldn’t look into those eyes anymore. She shut her eyes briefly and looked away.

God, Gidget, she thought, please don’t cry. Anger she could deal with, but sadness? Grief?

Those were emotions Franky had been trying desperately not to engage with, even though she did feel them. Oh fuck she felt them, especially when Bridget’s voice trembled and cracked, or when Franky had to look into those wet, powerful blue eyes that she loved kissing around so fucking much. Those eyelids? All the fine little lines in the corners? Her lashes? Fuck. Franky wanted to wrap Bridget in her arms and promise that everything would be all right. She couldn’t, though. She was fucking powerless, a useless partner. What good was she?

“So will you?” she asked. Go on, cover for me, Gidget. Franky thought she might as well try.

Bridget stared at Franky for half a second before letting out a breath. She had not expected that. It was the last thing Franky wanted to ask her, and fuck, it was the complete opposite of what Franky had been telling her since she got arrested. No, she didn’t want help. No, back off. No, get the fuck out of my face. And suddenly, wait I’m sorry please help me I need you?

“What?” Bridget asked.

Incredulous was a good word, Franky thought, as tears filled her eyes. She hated this. She wanted to go home. She wanted Bridget to come with her. They could escape together, right?

“What were you trying to do?” Bridget asked more fiercely as she spread her arms wide. With that gesture she reminded Franky once more of the Hell they were both trapped in. “Escape?” Bridget asked. “Steal the Brawler and smash through the gates?”

Fuck, they thought alike. Franky did not know how they kept doing that or when in their relationship it had started. Had it always been that way? Was that why they worked so well together? She would think something and seconds later or even days later Bridget would say it, and she might say it differently or go off in another direction like the unique individual and the quirky, spunky intellectual she was, but it would be the same concept driving them both forwards in their separate thought processes. Franky knew it worked the other way around too, because Bridget sometimes said, ‘I was just thinking that’, or ‘ha, I just had this other thought that is basically about the same thing, you read my mind, baby’. Franky loved that about them, except when it reinforced thoughts that really hurt, like there was no escape.

Franky said nothing as Bridget kind of almost got herself to Plan B without Franky having to say a word. She was close enough, she was fucking brilliant, and Franky couldn’t deny it. 

“Oh that’s…that’s fucking crazy!” Bridget exclaimed after Franky’s silent confirmation. Bridget’s voice was raised, she was angry and scared. Franky just wanted her to understand.

“No, it’s not crazy,” she insisted as she shook her head. Her voice cracked, her eyes stung. Franky couldn’t stand to see Bridget cry and her physical reaction was raw and automatic. 

Franky could tell herself whatever she wanted about not having any emotion and needing to talk tough, but they were just stupid thoughts that came and went and tried to sway her, and she had control over what she listened to within herself. The truth was she was an emotional person, she had a deep sense of empathy that she had only recognised and embraced in the past two years, with Bridget’s help, and Franky had nil control over the tears that filled her eyes in solidarity with the only woman she had ever fallen in love with, the only woman who ever loved her too, who Franky couldn’t be with. The distance between them was killing her. 

“I’m alone in here, Gidge,” she said. “And if I get convicted I’m gonna wither up and die.”

Franky gasped back a sob at that admission as she stared at Bridget. Bridget had her guard up. Bridget thought she was fucking insane for trying to escape. She resented Franky asking for her help after all the times Franky had rejected far more fucking sensible offers of assistance. Legal help, private investigators…a private investigator would be a bit more effective compared to some fugitive in cuffs on the run from the cops, right? Fuck, Franky was pretty sure that was all running through Bridget’s mind as Bridget pursed her lips and avoided her eyes with a steeled look on her face. She was trying not to be affected by what Franky said, but Franky was done pushing her away, at least for now. Franky needed her. 

“I’m fucked,” Franky said as she began to cry. She used the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe her nose. She felt like a little kid who’d gotten in trouble, and she didn’t know how to say sorry.

Bridget looked towards her window, to the outside world, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Franky had never seen those eyes so full but Bridget’s face was unreadable and it scared Franky, because maybe Bridget was actually seriously considering Franky’s request? That would be welcome but also insane, Franky reasoned. Bridget couldn’t even look at her. 

Fuck it, Franky thought. Fuck covering for me. That wasn’t what she really wanted here.

“I just wanna hold ya,” Franky admitted in a gentle, earnest voice. 

Bridget turned to look at her. She had her tears under control, better than Franky – for fuck’s sake, how did she even do that? – and she addressed Franky with a serious, controlled voice.

“You promise me you’ll never pull a stunt like that again, ever.”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Franky said in a quiet voice, as she looked at the desk and at Bridget’s pass that she had put back there. ‘I love you’ wouldn’t cut it, that was off the table for a long time now, but ‘yeah, yeah okay’ was a fair trade for a hug, Franky thought. It was pretty standard too. Get in trouble, say sorry, promise to never do it again, and all is forgiven, right? 

“Look at me,” Bridget said. The sincere, deep timbre of her voice cut through all the bullshit. Bridget demanded more from Franky than any person in the world ever had. She always had.

She reminded Franky that Franky was not a little kid getting in trouble with a teacher. They were grown women, they were still in a relationship with one another. They were equals. 

Franky wanted so desperately to look Bridget in the eyes and to meet every one of those high expectations. She wanted to excel, she wanted Bridget to be proud of her, she wanted Bridget to love her even though she had tried so hard to make herself unloveable; a monster like her mum. Bridget had told her she had failed and Franky believed it now, because Bridget was there offering her the opportunity to have something Franky had been trying to deny herself.

Contact. 

Franky sobbed as she tried to make her eyes move, but she was afraid of what she would see. Her heart was aching with all of the pain she had inflicted on them both, and she was terrified that she would see the opposite of forgiveness in Bridget’s eyes. Franky hadn’t even found a way to say sorry yet. What was she even doing? They weren’t equals, they never had been.

That thought gave her the courage to move her eyes, it relieved her of the expectations she put on herself to be something she thought Bridget wanted her to be. It was wrong to put that on Bridget, it was wrong not to look at her because Franky was afraid she didn’t measure up. Bridget never said that. Franky thought that shit up herself, inside her own fucked up head.

Franky looked at her. She could barely breathe. Bridget looked serious but so fucking sincere.

“You promise me,” she urged in an emotional whisper. She was on the verge of tears as well. 

Look me in the eyes, baby, and tell me that you mean it. Bridget’s voice and her expression simply requested no bullshit. Franky couldn’t look Bridget in the eyes and lie anyway; she could try but Bridget always knew when she was lying so there was no point. It didn’t matter though, Franky wasn’t in the mood to lie and she just wanted to save them both, just a little.

“I promise,” Franky said. She wept and held herself tightly around the waist with both arms.

Please save us, she thought, and she remembered similar thoughts from years earlier. Please, get me the fuck out of here, I love ya. She had tried to say it then, with her eyes and her voice and in all the times they had looked each other in the eyes in therapy in this fucking office! 

Bridget was the bravest, strongest person Franky knew, but if Franky couldn’t help herself and if she needed help but Bridget couldn’t help her, then Franky was fucked. Since Bridget was part of her and her life, then Bridget was fucked too. They both understood that, Franky realised when Bridget looked away. Bridget broke eye contact first and dissolved into tears. 

Shit, Franky thought. Her stomach flip-flopped and her heart sank as she watched Bridget’s face crumple. Sad, salty tears trickled out of Franky’s eyes and onto her cheeks. She sniffled. 

Bridget covered her face with her right hand to keep her own tears hidden, though she wept with a deep sort of pain that led more of Franky’s tears astray. Franky could barely make out what Bridget mumbled next. Oh fuck, I’m a mess? What a fucking mess? Fuck, I miss you?

We think the same, Franky reminded herself. She used her sleeve to wipe her runny nose and listened to Bridget cry. It was the first time Franky had truly listened to her, really heard her, and everything she now heard was everything she felt inside herself. The pain was the same.


	30. Bridget

“Look at me.”

Franky’s gentle voice spoke to Bridget as Bridget wept into her right hand, and as she raised her left for extra cover. She sobbed once in recognition of the way Franky was using her own words – she had just said that, for fuck’s sake – but her words weren’t being used against her, the tone was different. Franky spoke with a patience and composure that Bridget had lost that day the moment she realised her swipe card was missing. She hadn’t let herself relax since. 

“Bridget,” Franky whispered. 

Fuck, that voice, Bridget thought. She could fall asleep listening to Franky whisper her name like that. Bridget raked in a choked, emotional breath and dropped her hands from her face. She looked directly into Franky’s eyes, which she found to be full of tears and worry, and there was an apology written all over Franky’s flushed, damp face. Bridget saw fear in her as well, which she didn’t understand until Franky took a step towards her and stretched an arm out, only to lower that arm and step away. It looked awkward and forced. Franky frowned and shook her head a bit as she looked away. She was berating herself for trying to reach out. 

Bridget understood. All Franky wanted was to hold her, to be held by her, but she was afraid that Bridget would push her away just as Franky had pushed Bridget away inside her cell. 

But they were in her office now, Bridget reasoned, and it didn’t have to be like that again. 

She did not walk to Franky, but she held Franky’s eyes as she walked to her left, around the back of her desk and into the middle of her office, near her chairs and nearer to the window. 

Franky’s head turned to follow her. She swallowed heavily and licked her lips, waiting. 

“I’m going to let you come to me,” Bridget said after several seconds of silence. That was fair, she thought. The last time she tried to go to Franky, she’d been wholly rejected. “Baby,” she added in a whisper, and she raised her eyebrows as part of a quietly hopeful invitation.

“Oh fuck, yes,” Franky hissed as she exhaled a deep breath. Fresh tears spilled onto her cheeks as she strode to Bridget and grabbed her around the waist. Bridget sobbed once as she wrapped her arms around Franky’s neck and shoulders. The hug was sudden and fierce, they pulled on each other and their torsos crashed together before finding familiarity in the way they fit. Their shoes scuffed the carpet as they teetered and tried to stay balanced and upright. 

Bridget’s hands wrapped around Franky’s shoulders and the back of her head and ponytail as Franky hunched down and buried her face into the side of Bridget’s neck. Bridget shut her eyes when Franky sobbed and muffled a desperate wail against her skin. It was the same deep, primal sound that Bridget remembered hearing from between her own lips the night she sank to her knees on her kitchen floor with Vera looking on in shock. 

Bridget wept as she focused on the feeling of Franky’s soft hair beneath her fingers and the feeling of their hearts racing right up against each other. Franky was warm and soft, sweat and grease couldn’t take away from the scent that was uniquely her, and she was holding onto Bridget with all the force she had previously used to push her away. Fuck, this was a mess. 

Franky rubbed Bridget’s back and started chuckling, even as Bridget cried into her shoulder. 

“What’s so fucking funny?” Bridget asked without lifting her head. One of her hands gripped the back of Franky’s neck as the other combed through her ponytail and beneath her hair tie. 

“I’m meant to be comforting ya,” Franky said in a droll voice, with a self-deprecating scoff. She was still crying too, but she lifted her head and took Bridget’s face in both of her hands.

The gesture was not lost on Bridget. She had tried to hold Franky that way in Franky’s cell.

Tears trickled one after the other onto Bridget’s cheeks as they looked into each other’s eyes. Franky’s thumbs brushed back and forth across Bridget’s cheeks to catch her tears and to rub them gently into her flushed skin, even as tears trickled onto Franky’s own cheeks and were ignored. Franky shook her head with her lips pressed together, trying to smile while she wept. She glanced skywards briefly, before returning to Bridget’s eyes. 

“Please don’t cry,” she said. “I’ll hold ya for as long as it takes to stop us both falling apart.”

“So um, forever then?” Bridget asked. She did her best to smirk and raise a single eyebrow. 

Franky inhaled and nodded. She squeezed her eyes shut as more tears spilled onto her cheeks. 

“Yep,” she whispered. She knew it wasn’t going to be that way. Her hands were shaking against Bridget’s cheeks but her thumbs still gently stroked her, it was lovingly automatic. 

Bridget used the grip she had on Franky’s neck and head to guide their faces together until their foreheads touched and their noses could brush back and forth. Bridget nuzzled her gently, and the force she felt from Franky in return was not aggressive, merely desperate. 

Franky pressed her face in against Bridget’s and rubbed their cheeks and noses together. 

“Fuck,” she whispered half a second before kissing Bridget’s cheek. Bridget quickly did the same; a light peck to let Franky know it was all right. They could not talk about what had happened in that prison cell yet, but it was still all right. Bridget hadn’t left, she loved her too.

“Oh Franky,” Bridget whispered, as Franky started crying again. Bridget had only just managed to stop her own tears, and Franky was going to set her off again. They were both fucking hopeless. “Shh,” she hushed, even though her voice shook and fresh tears did gather. She took Franky’s face in her hands and realigned their faces. She forced their foreheads together and held Franky there. She rocked from one foot to the other to soothe them both.

“Let me lead,” Franky mumbled when they opened their eyes at the same time and caught sight of one another. In such extreme proximity, Bridget could not look away. She licked her lips and nodded. She stopped moving and loosened her grip, and Franky offered her a smile. 

It was a beautiful, sincere smile full of love that made Bridget’s heart swell up in her chest.

Franky took Bridget’s face in her hands again and held her for long seconds. She used the backs of her fingers to wipe the tears from Bridget’s cheeks. She tidied Bridget’s short hair and tucked it behind her ears. Bridget watched her with shaking lips pressed tightly together. Franky wasn’t looking her in the eyes, rather she was focused on every part of Bridget’s face. 

God, it was like she was trying to memorise her, or make love to her. It didn’t matter which.

“Don’t cry,” Franky said again. She fought back her own tears as she again tucked Bridget’s short hair behind her ears. Her fingertips skirted Bridget’s temples and the sensitive skin around her hairline. It was relaxing for her and Franky knew it, she was doing it deliberately.

Bridget’s hands had dropped to settle on Franky’s waist and the flare of her narrow hips. The teal tracksuit felt rough and cheap beneath her hands as she clung to it, but she did not dare attempt to touch the softer flesh beneath. She just hoped Franky could feel her there.

“Thank you,” Franky said suddenly. Bridget looked at her and raised her brow. She shook her head slightly because she didn’t understand. “For letting me see you cry,” Franky explained.

Bridget chuckled but pressed her lips together, because what the fuck?

“You just told me not to cry,” she said after a beat. 

“I know,” Franky said sincerely, without laughing. She looked at Bridget with open eyes and nodded, like she was trying to tell her something important. Bridget thought she understood. 

“Why don’t we sit down,” she suggested. 

Franky sniffled and nodded, but before Bridget could separate herself, Franky leant down and pressed their lips together. The kiss was brief, soft; Bridget barely felt it even though she knew it was happening, and all too quickly Franky pulled away. She walked to a nearby chair and collapsed into it with a fitful sigh, and she rubbed her face with her hands and groaned. 

“Fuck,” she said again. 

Bridget retrieved the box of tissues from her desk for the second time that day and brought them to her. Franky took three, and this time Bridget returned the box to the desk herself. She silently unlocked her desk drawers then, and she knew that Franky was watching her. She retrieved her cleansing wipes and paused to look over at her…her what, her girlfriend? Her partner? The woman she might actually consider marrying one day, if Franky wanted that.

“Have you eaten today?” Bridget asked. 

Franky stared at her with those big green eyes and shook her head. 

“Nuh,” she said. “The food’s shit.”

Bridget smirked. 

“Mm, I heard,” she said. She feigned a bemused recollection of a certain dining-room chorus. 

Franky chuckled and used the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe her nose and across her cheeks.

“Fair enough,” she mumbled. “I’m really tired,” she admitted on a quick inhalation.

“I know,” Bridget said as she lowered her gaze to her open drawer. She retrieved a sandwich and a few cacao and coconut snack bars from her bag, as well as a bottle of chewable, orange-flavoured Vitamin C tablets. With her hands full, she kneed the drawer shut. 

“Gidge,” Franky began when she saw what Bridget was carrying.

“Don’t even start,” Bridget insisted. She put everything on the small coffee table in the room and dragged it so that it was directly between the two armchairs. She handed Franky the cleansing wipes first, and remained standing nearby.

“How shit are my eyes?” Franky asked. 

“Do your face, I’ll fix your eyes.” 

Franky rolled those eyes but she nevertheless complied. Bridget knew the cucumber-infused cleansing wipes were not just hers; they were Franky’s favourite as well. Franky had adopted them as her own almost as soon as they began living together. Bridget knew they were cool and soothing, and she watched on sadly as Franky held one flat to one cheek, then the other. 

Franky looked just as sad and vulnerable as she held the packet back out to Bridget. Bridget took the small packet and another of the thin moist towels. She twisted it into a small point in her right hand and used her left to angle Franky’s face upwards. She leant one knee on top of Franky’s thigh for balance as she hunched over her, and Franky shut her eyes and let Bridget wipe away the dribbles of mascara and eyeliner. She could not go back to her cell like that.

“Your eyeshadow is okay,” Bridget said. “Your lower lid’s liner is completely gone.”

“It’s fine,” Franky said in a choked voice. Her hands were clenched in her lap. Her fingertips were bright red and her knuckles were white. Franky was using all her self-restraint not to pull Bridget in for an intimate cuddle on what was most definitely not their couch at home. 

Bridget brushed her right index fingertip along the upper curves of Franky’s smoky eyelids when she was done, appreciating her beautiful face and blending smears into her fragile skin.

“Well, that’s more respectable,” she said as she backed away. “Now, eat.”

“Gidget-”

“Don’t fuck with me, Franky, just eat,” Bridget said. She collapsed into her own chair and used the wipe she was still holding to clean her face too. She had her makeup in her bag; it was not the first time she had needed to reapply it after breaking down at work. Sometimes that was a hazard of the job, actually, something they didn’t put in the university brochures.

“It’s your lunch,” Franky said as she leant forwards and picked up the sandwich.

“It’s not. I was going to stay back late tonight so I brought two…I think I’ll just go home.”

“Oh,” Franky mumbled. She bit her bottom lip and began to pick at the edge of the wrapping.

Bridget watched her carefully. Franky’s head was bowed and she slowly unwrapped the sandwich on her lap. It was a salad sandwich that Bridget had made fresh that morning, with tomato and lettuce, grated carrot, and slices of Franky’s favourite cheese that was still in the fridge, plus a little salt and pepper. Bridget knew Franky could see all of that and Franky was staring at it as though it was some kind of prized possession, like the kite necklace she wasn’t wearing. Bridget wondered if Franky still had it. She hadn’t been able to find it at home. She imagined it was in an envelope in admissions storage, along with Franky’s wallet and phone.

“It looks amazing,” Franky said. She looked up at Bridget with an open mouth. “I can have some?”

“Of course,” Bridget assured her with a frown as she tried not to laugh. Silly. “Eat it all.”

“Thank you,” Franky whispered. She lifted half of the sandwich, mindful not to lose any of the filling, and took a bite. “Oh my God, I dunno what the fuck I did to deserve you,” she mumbled with a mouth full of food. She chewed hungrily. “Why are you feeding me?”

Bridget crossed her arms, sat back in her chair, and smirked. 

“When you’re killed…trying to escape,” she said with wide, forceful eyes that belied her playful tone. “I don’t want to have to render my garments over a body that’s malnourished.”

“Mhmm,” Franky hummed as she devoured the first half of the sandwich. Bridget could not help the laugh that bubbled out of her chest. She didn’t even think Franky had heard her. 

“You can take these back with you,” Bridget said. She leant forwards and pushed the three small but tasty chocolate snack bars across the table. They were full of dates and coconut and cacao, they would boost her mood and give her energy. “And I want you to take some of these,” she added as she turned the Vitamin C bottle around to face Franky. Franky stared at it and rolled her eyes when she finally got a chance to see what exactly that bottle contained. 

“They don’t do anything,” she whined, even as she licked her lips and picked up the second half of Bridget’s sandwich. “Fuck, I miss this cheese,” she said before taking a bite.

“I know you do,” Bridget assured her gently. “And you are taking Vitamin C, Franky. You cannot get sick in here, yeah? You are under a lot of pressure. Believe me, it helps.”

“Okay, okay,” Franky assured her with several nods of her head. “I feel bad though, this is the best thing I’ve eaten since I got back to this shithole and I didn’t bring ya anything.”

“You brought me my pass back,” Bridget said in a measured voice. She knew that was not exactly true, but Bridget wanted to see what Franky said now they were both calm.

“I didn’t get the chance,” Franky reminded her. “Anyway, that’s not the same thing, Gidge.” 

“No, it’s not,” Bridget agreed softly. “You used me, Franky. You put me at risk.”

“I know,” Franky said. At least she was honest, Bridget thought, as Franky finished eating. Franky picked up the snack bars and put them in the pockets of her hoodie, and she then opened the bottle of Vitamin C tablets and shook two large, flat, orange tablets onto her palm. 

“Do you want to take more for later?” Bridget asked. 

“I know where they are,” Franky said with a shake of her head. She put the tablets in her mouth and started chewing, but winced and reared back when the full force of two very strong, slightly sour in their orange-flavour Vitamin C tablets assaulted her tastebuds. 

That was a small taste of karma, Bridget thought with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Jesus,” Franky huffed, as she tried to chew them and get rid of them as quickly as possible. 

Bridget sighed at the display, and got up to retrieve the bottle of water that was on her desk. 

“Thanks gorgeous,” Franky said automatically, just as her hand wrapped around the bottle. 

Bridget hesitated. They both held the bottle as their eyes found each other and they stared. 

Oops, Bridget thought. She reminded herself where she was and she could see Franky doing the same thing. All too easily their interactions and their conversation had become domestic. On any other day, Franky could have been sitting at the kitchen bench while Bridget was in the kitchen preparing her own lunch, and it would not have made any fucking difference.

But we’re not home, Bridget thought. She let go of the water bottle, watched Franky take a sip, and Bridget then sat back down in her chair. She leant back into the cushions, shut her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Franky was not the only one who was tired. Shit. 

“Are we okay?” Franky asked softly after what felt like several minutes. When Bridget opened her eyes, Franky was holding the bottle out for her. Bridget took it and took a long drink. She shut her eyes again and shook her head, as she blindly pushed down on the cap.

“No,” she said. She opened her eyes and stared straight into Franky’s. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest but she had to be honest. “Not right now. You understand why?”

Franky nodded and looked back at her. Yes, they loved each other, but they were not ‘okay’.

“I think you should go to bed and have a sleep,” Bridget told her. She refused to suggest that Franky go ‘to her cell’. That would be an awful thing to say and would only serve to remind Franky how far from her comfortable queen-sized bed at home with its downy quilt she really was. “Rest, and think very carefully about whatever it was you were trying to do today. Do not sabotage any decent chance you have of getting out of here, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Franky said quietly. She bit her bottom lip and glanced away for a brief second. “Um,” she began when she looked up again. She smiled softly. “I miss home.”

Bridget took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She nodded. She missed Franky at home too.

*

The next day, Bridget was in her office when Vera called to tell her about the accident. The Brawler had tumbled into a lake. It sank. Two guards – one of them Will – and Top Dog Kaz had been taken to hospital. They had been on the way to court but the accident had happened off the main road. Vera had no idea how badly hurt they were, she had sounded panicked and deeply concerned, and when Bridget asked if she knew what had happened, Vera had no idea.

Bridget had a bit of an idea though, an inkling based on the previous day’s events. Franky’s committal hearing was meant to have been that day but it had been pushed back. Kaz’s appeal, however, had been moved up. Different courts, different dockets. Franky should have been the one in that van. What were the chances that Franky’s escape plan had less to do with ramming the gates and more to do with causing a rollover in transit so somehow she could miraculously make a run for it? Or maybe even try to escape once she was in hospital, like Bea? Did Franky have any idea how fucking stupid that was? She could have died! Will and Kaz might still die, and then where would that leave Franky Doyle? Manslaughter charges?

Bridget went searching immediately after hanging up the phone. 

As she had come to expect, after a few wrong turns she walked right into Franky. Franky saw her and slowed down, she moved nearer to the wall and out of the way of the other women, and Bridget strode directly to her. To stop her momentum, and because she now felt like she could, Bridget stopped with her fingertips touching Franky’s waist. She looked into her eyes.

“Did you have anything to do with sabotaging the Brawler by any chance?” she asked.

“No,” Franky said. 

“There’s been an accident,” Bridget told her. She saw genuine concern flood Franky’s eyes.

“What? Who was in it?”

“Will Jackson, Kaz Proctor, the driver.” Bridget noted that Franky reacted particularly to the mention of Will’s name. She knew he was important to them both.

“Shit,” Franky whispered. Her eyes were wet and sad, full of worry, but Bridget was focused.

“Tell me you had nothing to do with it,” she said. She had such a bad feeling about this. It was no coincidence that Franky was meant to have been in that van, it was no coincidence that she had been caught by Bridget in the same garage as the Brawler the previous day. She hadn’t meant for anyone else to get hurt but that was just the thing; they always did get hurt.

“I didn’t,” Franky assured her with wide, innocent eyes and a shake of her head, but she looked down towards Bridget’s chest in the fraction of a second before those words were out of her mouth. She did not look back into Bridget’s eyes until the last syllable was on her lips.

She was lying, then. Fuck, Franky! By the time Bridget had stood in front of her and made her promise that she would never pull another stunt ‘like that’ again – not even knowing what she had done, to begin with – it had already been too late. The damage had been done. Shit!

“Are they all right?” Franky asked. Bridget didn’t know.


	31. Franky

Kaz broke her wrist in the Brawler accident, and Franky tried not to feel too guilty about that. After all, it could have been worse and Will was all right as well. Not that he had been any help to Franky since; she had been avoiding them both for obvious reasons. For days she had expected Will or someone else to summon her to Vera’s office where she would be shown security footage of her fucking with the wheel nuts, or a piece of paper demonstrating how Bridget’s pass had been used to access the garage, but nothing had happened. No one came.

Franky assumed the cops investigated the accident and something else had caused it; because those wheel nuts had been pretty fucking tight and Franky wasn’t even sure how well she had managed to loosen them. Or maybe the cops had investigated but it looked accidental, and even if Vera had reviewed the security footage she was still prepared to look the other way for Bridget and Franky’s sake – which was a pretty big fucking call, to be frank – or because the Brawler was insured and no one was badly hurt, Vera could be distracted by other things.

Like the fact the Freak had cut out Juice’s tongue. 

Franky had no fucking idea how Joan Ferguson was still roaming the halls. She had been elected Top Dog, she had usurped Kaz, and she was walking around as though she was untouchable. Franky could only assume the screws themselves were scared to touch her – Vera too – because if it was anyone else, Top Dog or not, they would have been slotted. Franky had been slotted so many times when she was Top Dog, solitary confinement had been like her second home, and there were times she had been dragged into that cement box literally kicking and screaming. Bea Smith had been slotted heaps too. It was part of the job, Top Dogs got shit done and if it meant a few days in solitary, so be it, the women appreciated that. Yet Ferguson acted like she was invincible and everyone around her believed it. 

Franky knew better. The Freak was just a woman, she bled, she could die, but Franky wasn’t going to be the one to do it. She had to focus on getting out. She had to focus on getting back to Bridget. Franky didn’t want to be in Bridget’s office crying with her again, it wasn’t fair. 

However, obviously escaping in the Brawler was out of the question, and she had no news on when her rescheduled committal hearing would be. She had to find another way, and it was going to take brains and ingenuity. It was fucking hard to escape from even a minimum security prison, but Franky thought this could be a good time to try. Vera and the screws were clearly distracted and they were letting things slide. They weren’t reviewing security footage, they weren’t following up on little slip-ups or when things went wrong they were too busy dealing with the consequences to properly investigate the causes. Their defences were down.

Unlike the Freak, Franky didn’t want to use that to hurt anyone. She didn’t want to be Top Dog, she didn’t want power, she just wanted freedom. 

She kept that thought in the back of her mind always, even as she sat in the library with Iman, to help Iman fight for her freedom too. Iman’s defence to her assault charge was provocation – online trolling, cyber bullying-type-shit – which was a fucking difficult excuse to prove in court, actually, but Franky was keen to help her and to see what she could come up with. She missed law. She missed writing affidavits, she missed interviewing clients, she missed preparing briefs and doing all of the research for their cases. Franky was great at research, everybody said so. And she could write, too. She fucking missed it, she missed her life! 

At least by helping Iman she could stay connected to that world; Franky didn’t want to lose time and she didn’t want to forget, but before she could get very far, Vera entered. 

“I’d like a word alone with Doyle, please,” Vera stated. Iman left quickly, and Vera shut the door and walked towards Franky, still seated. “How’s your case coming?” Vera asked her.

“It’s not mine, it’s Iman’s. There might be an argument for a reduced sentence.”

And that was the thing, Franky reasoned. Iman was guilty, she had bashed that girl beyond all reasonable doubt and she wasn’t saying she didn’t; the only hope she had on this provocation excuse was to claim that somehow the sentence should be reduced because this chick had ‘asked for it’, a bit like contributory negligence towards her own safety and wellbeing. Back when Franky had been carrying all of her old pain and anger around with her, she had often hurt people and justified it by saying, ‘they were asking for it’. Were they, though? Were they asking for that, specifically, to happen to them? Legally, it was a bullshit argument. 

“I’ve always admired that about you,” Vera said as she checked the bookshelves to make sure they were really alone. 

Franky watched her. Vera had caught her and Bridget talking in the bookshelves once, years ago. Franky had wanted so much to kiss Bridget then, she still did. They were so in love.

“Your willingness to help the other women despite what’s going on in your own life,” Vera continued. She approached the desk and took a seat opposite Franky. Franky smiled at her. 

“Well that’s me,” she said with wide eyes and a taunting grin. “Patron Saint of lost causes.”

That was Saint Jude, actually. Bridget had told her that once. 

“Now there’s a way you could really help them?” Vera suggested. 

Franky watched her more sincerely as they paused and looked each other into the eyes. Franky knew that Vera saw the ‘real’ Franky now. When she looked at Franky, Vera wasn’t just looking at a criminal, she wasn’t looking at some violent delinquent who was beyond help; she was looking at somebody she knew out in the world. Vera knew as much about Franky as Bridget might have told her and as much as Franky had let her see, they’d eaten dinners together on the outside, Bridget loved Franky and Vera knew that too. Vera looked at her like a peer, like an equal. Franky liked that, she respected and even quite liked Vera, and she knew why Vera was about to say what she was. Franky didn’t hold it against her. 

“Take down Ferguson,” Vera said. It was almost a plea. A statement. Not quite an order. 

“I’d rather keep my tongue…for obvious reasons.” Franky wanted to keep it light but she also wanted to be firm about this. If she went after the Freak, the Freak would go after Bridget. 

“So it was her?” Vera asked. 

Jesus fucking Christ, Franky thought. Vera was her own Saint Jude here. 

“Well anyone with half a brain can see that. Why haven’t you shipped her off to the nut-house yet?” 

It was the question on everyone’s minds. All the women, Liz, Boomer, Iman, Allie, Doreen, even Juice’s old crew, her ‘boys’; they were all fucking terrified and wondering what the fuck this woman was going to do before she was separated from them? They were all scared and Franky hated that. She hated that her mates were scared, she hated that she was scared too. 

“Because the people with half a brain don’t have the evidence to prove it,” Vera said.

Franky had no idea how that was possible. They were in a maximum security prison, there were cameras fucking everywhere, and while there weren’t cameras pointed at the medical tables and things like that, for the sake of what little dignity the women did have left, there should have been surveillance. Ferguson had someone on the books, at least one screw and maybe the young blonde nurse as well. She wasn’t the Freak’s type, but she was vulnerable.

“So you want me to fix your problem for you?” Franky asked. Ironic, given that not so long ago Vera would have considered Franky to be her problem, not her superhero. 

“It’s not just my problem,” Vera said. “She is making life Hell for everyone, including your friends.”

As if I don’t fucking know it, Franky thought as she softened and allowed herself to feel sad. There was a part of Franky that wanted to protect these disadvantaged, vulnerable, sometimes really fucking stupid women; to stand up for them in a way that no one had since before Bea died. Franky thought about it, but scrunched up her nose and shook her head. No, it was a death sentence. It would mean death for her or Bridget, and Franky couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to either of them. She loved her friends, she wanted to help her mates and she knew she was smart enough, but her own life and Bridget’s life were worth more.

“You can tell Proctor,” Franky said. Franky wasn’t the only ex-Top Dog at Wentworth anymore. “She’s all about the women.”

Franky looked into Vera’s eyes and they stared earnestly at each other. Franky was not guarded in the way she looked at her, she wanted Vera to know that this wasn’t just about her, she was not being selfish here, she did understand, but Vera was asking too much.

“You are the only one who can take on Ferguson,” Vera insisted in a gentle voice. She understood, she did see Franky and she was really listening to her, but she was fucked too. “The women will rally around you,” Vera promised her. Again, she sounded so sure, so fucking sincere and gentle and Franky appreciated that more than Vera knew, she wanted to find a way to thank her but this wasn’t it, she couldn’t. She just fucking couldn’t do it! 

Tell her, she thought. 

“You’re not dragging me back in,” Franky said. She had packed up her things and she stood and left Vera sitting at the desk on her own. She knew Vera would be disappointed, but only in Franky’s choice, not in who she was. At her core, Vera had to respect Franky for what she was trying to achieve while she was stuck inside Wentworth. Franky thought that she did. 

*

With the Brawler out of action, Plan B would have been a write-off if it weren’t for what Franky noticed in the recreation yard later that day. She had looked skywards, as she often did, to think of Bea and her freedom, and she had seen a service worker on top of one of the roofs, beyond the wire. It was a part of the building connected to the prison, but it was on the other side of the yard. Franky knew this yard was closest to the car park and the exterior fences, because as Top Dog she had often sent tennis balls filled with drug orders or cash over the wire while the screws were distracted. 

But this guy on the roof wasn’t an ordinary screw, he wasn’t in uniform. Rather, he was in a dark blue and bright yellow, high-visibility, long-sleeved workman’s shirt, with a white hard-hat. Franky reckoned maybe he was from Energex or he was a council worker checking on whatever systems were up there on the roof, like the air conditioning for the offices. He had some sort of checklist on a clipboard and he had been walking up and down, but he was looking at his feet and the roof, and not at the prison or the women. He was not a guard. 

If he could get up there, could she?

Franky spent her evening wandering the halls, trying to follow the path from the yard to that side of the prison. She always came upon the administration wing, and Franky couldn’t get through without a pass. She wouldn’t steal Bridget’s pass again, she had promised, but there was another possibility; the vents. If the guy on the roof had been checking the air conditioning and the ventilation, then maybe there was a path that led straight to that roof? 

Franky wasn’t sure she would actually be able to escape from the roof; surely someone would see her, she could kill herself jumping, and if there were stairs then of course there would be a fence or security check-point at the bottom, because Wentworth wasn’t a bed and breakfast. And yet the idea of getting onto the roof was intoxicating. Franky would be able to feel the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, or the rain blowing about her body. She wanted it. 

And if she happened to find a few holes in the prison’s security in the meantime? Bonus. 

Franky was staring at a vent when she heard Will’s voice. He no longer called her Franky.

“Doyle,” he said. “Count’s coming up, time to get home.”

He said it like she had simply stayed back late at work, in that, ‘It’s after five, shouldn’t you be going home to your girl?’ kind of way. It was funny how quickly everyone normalised this lifestyle, she thought. She had normalised it once upon a time as well, because before Wentworth she’d never felt like she had a proper home, and Wentworth seemed like a good enough alternative. Franky knew better now though, and it upset her that Will had forgotten.

“This’ll never be home, Mr J,” she said as she spread her arms and shook her head. She grimaced. 

“Fair enough,” he said to her as she walked away. It was almost as though he didn’t believe her, and as Franky walked away she thought about how strange it was that Will had been able to depersonalise her, but Vera had almost done the opposite. If Franky looked Vera in the eyes and said, ‘this isn’t home’, Vera would agree. ‘I know,’ she might say, and Franky could picture the understanding, almost compassionate expression on her face. Will was blank. 

Franky wondered if he suspected she had something to do with the Brawler accident, or maybe he was just tired. He was as tired of Wentworth as she was, and maybe in his heart he didn’t believe that either of them would ever get out. Franky still hoped, though.

It was important to Franky that she not lose that hope. Bridget had always told her how special it was that Franky had so much hope naturally twisted up inside her. It had allowed her to survive so much already, it had drawn Bridget and the other women to her, and it had prompted her to keep pushing to succeed and to thrive, no matter where she was. Franky had seen what had happened to Bea when Bea lost hope. She had gotten depressed, Bridget had said Bea had started cutting, and ultimately she had given up her life to take down the Freak.

It hadn’t worked. Joan Ferguson was cutting out tongues now. What would Bea think of that? 

Franky could not let her own hope or her life slip away, not even to try to take down Joan Ferguson, and she was prepared to latch on to any good habit, event or plan, or even just any sliver of each boring fucking day to nurture that hope inside her. If those things did not exist, then Franky would create them, she would bring them to life to save her life. Hope came from looking herself in the mirror and brushing her hair, it came from keeping up to date with the law and her own defence, and it came from planning for the day her defence might fail. 

Franky would be free. It did not matter how impossible it sounded, or how trite it seemed.

One of the best ways to stay focussed on that, even if it was bittersweet, was to latch on to other people’s freedom; the potential for Iman to get a reduced sentence, or more importantly, Doreen’s parole. Doreen had been surprised by her parole that night, after she had applied for a transfer to Western Australia to be with her boyfriend and her son. She had been devastated at being knocked back for the transfer, apparently without any concrete explanation, but here was the explanation; she was free. Doreen had done so bloody well at her transfer application hearing that the Board decided to grant her an early release, and she was leaving the next day.

Franky was so fucking happy for her, and she knew that what had happened to her wouldn’t happen to Doreen; everyone loved Doreen, no one was out to get her, no one would frame her for murder. She would be able to have a life with her family that she had desperately wanted for a long time now, and Franky now understood that way fucking better than she had before.

I have a family out there too, she thought. 

For one night, Franky could sit with her old crew. The originals; Liz, Boomer, Doreen, and Franky. Boomer had wrangled some single malt from Sonia, who apparently had no problem smuggling pricey alcohol into the prison in shampoo bottles. It was yet another indication to Franky that security was not what it had been in the past. All of those bottles should have been opened and they should have passed the sniff-test before being delivered. Single-malt whisky did not smell like fucking Pantene or Head and Shoulders. It certainly didn’t look like it. What the fuck were the screws doing? Turning a blind eye because she was rich? Maybe Sonia was paying them off; Franky wouldn’t be surprised. Sonia was new but very clever. 

Liz had her moments, too, because she volunteered Franky to do the toast. The four of them had been through so much together, and even though it was totally shit that Franky was back inside, she was glad to be there for this moment. She stood and lifted her mug, and she thought about how they were all better people than they had been four years earlier when Franky first met them. Doreen and Liz had always been the heart of the group, the mothers; Franky was the rebellious kid and Boomer the soft, playful one. They had all just clicked, and they had always fought but they settled arguments and moved on, because they had always known they were stronger together than apart. Doreen might still have been all heart, she had always been the better person, but because of her they were all better people, Franky was better. Doreen had taught her so much, and Franky had watched her mature too. She deserved this opportunity more than Franky ever had, probably. They were friends, and the four of them had made a family. It wasn’t the sort of family that was ever meant to be permanent, but the deep joy of it came from the way it lingered even though they all knew it was fleeting.

Franky couldn’t say all that, though. 

“I love you Dores,” she began in earnest. “We all do. And this place is way more bearable with you in it.” Franky hesitated as tears filled her eyes. “But we’re gonna forgive you for leaving us because you belong on the outside with your other family.” 

We all do, Franky thought as Doreen nodded and fought back tears as well. Franky took a deep breath and pointed at her. She didn’t want them to cry, she wanted them to be happy. 

“Now we’re gonna miss you heaps,” she continued. “But we will never forgive you if you fuck this chance up.” 

Please don’t fuck up, Franky thought. She didn’t want Doreen to go through what she had. 

“So ladies, we are all gonna raise a toast to Dores. Get up off your asses, come on, come on!” They stood and raised their mugs together over the centre of the table. “No fucking up,” Franky said, to lead the cheer. 

“No fucking up!” 

*

Franky watched her leave the next day, standing on the roof of Wentworth, beyond the wire.

She had talked her way into Bridget’s office, used Bridget’s coffee table as leverage, and had hoisted herself up into the roof. She had crawled through the vents, at first following the path she’d mapped out in her mind, but soon she had allowed herself to be guided by the sunshine reflected along the metal shaft. The blue sky that greeted her was the most beautiful sight. 

It had taken a few firm shoves to get the grate open, but it was not as though that sheet of metal she shifted with her strong but slender frame had been bolted into place or anything. What the fuck? Franky could barely believe her luck as she scurried across the roof. No one saw her, no one called out, no one ordered her down or threatened to shoot. She stood. 

It was a warm afternoon; sunshine that barely made it into the yard at that time of day seeped into her body through the teal of her tracksuit. Her head and face was warmed at the same time as her hair was whipped around by a cool breeze. The wind was stronger higher up. 

Franky remembered being picked up by Bridget when she was paroled, and she remembered driving away with the air rushing past her head and over the tops of her hands. All the hairs on her arms had stood up beneath her jacket just as they did again, as she spread her arms wide and wished that she could fly. If she could, she was sure the wind would have picked her up and flown her home in the glorious sunshine; across the water she could see in the distance, and then around and over the rooftops in the suburbs until she found her place. 

Her dad, her sister, and Bridget. 

Franky couldn’t fly, but she did try the door on the other end of the roof. It was locked. Fair enough, she thought. She could at least enjoy her new space, and maybe she could come back again sometimes. She could lie in the sun and dream. She could rest and listen to the wind.

Franky fought back tears and watched Doreen leave the prison. Doreen never saw her, but Franky hoped that she felt her. Franky watched Nash and little Josh come to pick her up, and Josh ran to his mummy and she cuddled him and spun him around. She looked so fucking happy, she was crying too. Franky touched her heart and fought back a sob. She was pleased for Doreen but she wanted that as well. She’d had the chance once, but she wanted it again. She wanted Tessa to run into her arms and she wanted to hug her little sister with all her heart. She wanted her dad to kiss her cheek and put his arm around her. She wanted Bridget to wrap her up and bury her face into Franky’s neck. She wanted to hold them all forever. 

Nash and Josh had brought Doreen a helium balloon, and Franky watched it escape them. It floated up into the blue sky just as one of Bea’s red ribbons had done. The celebratory balloon was carried off by the wind, into the sunshine. 

Fuck, I wish that was me, she thought. Franky fought her tears and pressed a kiss to her fingers that she sent off towards Doreen and her family. At least that part of her could fly.

Franky knew she could not stay up there forever, and she didn’t think she could bear it. Her heart felt swollen and it ached with the empathy she felt towards Doreen and that whole amazing situation she was now in, a situation Franky had been in before, but in a different way because back then Bridget hadn’t been ‘family’, and Bridget’s arrival had been a surprise, and Franky felt like she had been so fucking young when it happened, too young to really appreciate it even though it had happened less than a year ago. She was different now, and she was overwhelmed by sadness and hope and fear and love. So much fucking love. 

It came crashing down when she got back to Bridget’s office only to hear Bridget on the other side of the door, being told that Franky was waiting for an appointment that didn’t exist.

Bridget was wary and a little pissed off when she entered. They hadn’t spoken since Bridget confronted her about the Brawler accident, and Franky lied about having anything to do with it. Bridget wasn’t stupid, she had walked away from Franky knowing she had lied. Franky was now also out of breath and that was difficult to cover; it had been a rush to sit down and look nonchalant, her chest was heaving and her expression was guarded. Bridget watched her.

“So what have you stolen this time?” Bridget asked. 

“What, do you want to check my pockets?” Franky asked. She put the magazine she had been pretending to read on the coffee table, hopefully to hide her footprints and the dirt still on it.

“What I want is to stop having to cover for you,” Bridget said, arms crossed. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see you,” Franky said. In a way, it was true. Any chance to see Bridget, she took. 

Bridget wasn’t buying it. She saw the dirt on the coffee table, her eyes lifted towards the vent.

Fuck, Franky thought. She loved dating someone so switched on, she loved Bridget’s mind, she loved that Bridget knew her so fucking well, inside and out; everything about her. Bridget just ‘got’ how Franky’s mind worked, their hearts were in it too, and fuck it was special, but that meant Bridget knew immediately what Franky had been trying to do. Franky heard the disappointment in Bridget’s shaking voice and she saw it in her guarded, upset expression. 

“You know you promised me, you looked me in the eye,” Bridget said, as she looked Franky directly in the eyes once more. “And said, ‘I’m not gonna try anything anymore’.”

Franky could not hide her own disappointment as well. She did not regret the roof, she did not regret being able to watch Doreen go home to her family, but she regretted this aftermath. She hated herself for the look in Bridget’s eyes and for the fact she still felt out of breath. 

“Yeah I know,” she mumbled. She hadn’t had any time to think about what to do if she got caught, she hadn’t forced herself to take the time and she should have. It wasn’t good enough.

“And I believed you, again!” Bridget exclaimed. She raised her voice and glared at Franky. Franky watched her in earnest as Bridget covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head a little. “I’m not doing this anymore, Franky,” she said. 

“I’m doing it for us,” Franky insisted, as plainly and openly as she could. She stood and walked to Bridget. This time Bridget wouldn’t have to ask her to make the promise, she just would, and if it was off her own bat then maybe it would mean something more. She clasped her hands and then spread them. “I won’t do it again,” she said. She meant it, she really did. 

Bridget couldn’t look her in the eyes, however, or she wouldn’t. 

“Get out,” she said. 

“I’m sorry,” Franky said, soft and earnest. Didn’t Bridget understand? Deep down, Franky had always known she wouldn’t be allowed to escape from the roof. That roof was still inside the prison grounds, and this wasn’t a fairtytale, she wasn’t Rapunzel or whoever. But what Franky had gotten up on that roof meant so much to her. She had just filled herself up with enough warmth and love and hope to last her maybe a few weeks, or even a couple of months? She needed to keep finding ways to do that, she needed to keep fighting, and it was for both of them. Bridget didn’t hear that in her apology though, she didn’t look her in the eyes. She ordered her out again and Franky left. She left knowing that she could keep going. She would get out and live a happy life, Ferguson would not win. Franky and Bridget would.


	32. Bridget

Bridget felt like shit. She felt like she had been strong for so long, but the days had dragged into weeks and she was wise enough to know that she was buckling under the weight of her quiet house and empty home. She wasn’t sleeping, she wasn’t eating properly, and she was drinking too much. She knew exactly when her resolve crumbled too; she wasn’t still so drunk that she had forgotten. It was the moment she walked in the front door the night of the Brawler accident, when she realised what finding Franky in the garage with her pass the day before had really meant. It was perfectly obvious to Bridget that Franky was looking for ways to escape, and that thought alone was tortuous, Bridget could scarcely get it off her mind. 

That was the first night she really got into the wine. 

A million possibilities had run through Bridget’s head, and they continued to do so almost of every minute of every day. The story always ended the same way, with Franky dead. Good-hearted, well-meaning, lovely Franky, who was surely trying to escape only so she could somehow magically conjure up the evidence required to clear her name and to prove the police wrong. Stupid, naïve, panicked Franky, who was not in the right frame of mind to think about the consequences and to see how impossible that plan was; she would be hunted and shot by police before they listened to a single word she had to say. 

Bridget could picture the chase, she could imagine the siege and Franky holed up somewhere, maybe with so-called hostages she was trying to question. Bridget could hear the gunfire, she could hear Franky trying to plead her innocence in the fight, and Bridget couldn’t bear it. She never wanted to hold Franky’s lifeless body in her arms, she didn’t want to look into vacant green eyes that no longer saw her. Not like that. Maybe when they were old, but then again Bridget always assumed that she would entrust her death to Franky, not the other way around.

Vera kept mentioning that Bridget looked tired, and so far Bridget had gotten along by simply agreeing and relying on water and coffee to get her through each day. Yet when Vera told Bridget that one of the older women had died and that the rest might want grief counselling, all Bridget could think about was how she was grieving herself, and she didn’t give a shit about what the other women were feeling because they could not possibly be in the pain she was in. So she wasn’t in a great frame of mind, either, that was fair enough. Her life as she had known it was destroyed.

It might have been okay if Franky was suffering too, but she wasn’t. Or at least, not like Bridget. Franky wasn’t alone. She didn’t have to go home to a dark house. Her food was prepared for her, people like Will and Vera were looking out for her, and she seemed happy.

Bridget watched her as often as she could. She could stand at a window that overlooked the yards and she watched Franky talking with Liz and laughing with Allie. Recently, Franky had been spending more time with Allie. Bridget was torn between wanting to ensure that Franky was safe and happy, and worrying that every time Franky laughed with Allie it meant she cared for Bridget and their home a little less. Franky wasn’t faking her happiness, it was perhaps the one thing other than love that she found difficult to act out. That smile was real, it lit up her beautiful eyes. That laugh was genuine, Bridget could always tell when it wasn’t. 

The problem was, even if Franky hadn’t forgotten Bridget and their home, Bridget felt like she was starting to. Bridget couldn’t remember exactly what it felt like to hold Franky’s hand as they watched a movie, she couldn’t remember exactly how Franky smelt after a shower, she couldn’t remember exactly how she sounded when they made love. She couldn’t bear that they barely touched, and in the mornings she still woke up and reached for her. In one half of a second she wondered where Franky was, or thought, ‘she must be in the loo’, and in the next half of a second reality stepped in, grabbed that ridiculous notion, and tore it to shreds. 

She felt torn and her heart was aching. Bridget wanted to lie beneath Franky and wrap her arms and legs around her and she wanted to hold on for the rest of their lives, but it couldn’t be like that with Franky inside Wentworth, laughing with Allie as though nothing was wrong.

Please don’t try to escape, Bridget wished for the hundredth time as she watched Franky through the window, for surely that day Franky was too happy to be thinking of anything else. She and Allie certainly were not laughing over poor old Marge’s death. Bridget knew how intoxicating the idea of freedom was for Franky and women like Allie, but intoxication was not a useful sensation; the high was always fleeting and in the end, depression won. 

Bridget would hate to see Franky so upset that her ridiculous plans had failed, if Franky even survived. If she had been the one in the Brawler the day of the accident, she might not have. Bridget wanted to see Franky broken even less than she wanted it for herself. She wanted to do everything in her power to protect her but she couldn’t, and it seemed Franky didn’t need or want it. She was doing just fine. Bridget was the one in a downwards spiral, she was alone.

She wanted to be stronger, she knew that she could be, but she could not help her worry and she couldn’t keep fighting herself. This had never happened to Bridget before; this strange line she was toeing between her own rational self-awareness and her irrational, human self. 

It was a bizarre feeling, but Bridget was getting used to it. Later that day a little tug of jealousy pulled one foot over that line, then the other, and she found herself chasing after Allie; the young, tall, thin, blonde-haired and blue-eyed woman who had so clearly captured Bea’s heart. Could she do the same for Franky? Is that what either or both of them wanted? 

They had formed an alliance, that much was clear. This was the woman who had sat in Bridget’s office and cried, but who had simultaneously stolen Bridget’s security pass for Franky. Bridget had never told her off, they had not spoken since, and her stupid security pass was the furthest thing from Bridget’s mind as she caught up to Allie in the hallway.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Bridget said as she used her pass to open a door to let Allie through with her trolley. “I heard about poor Marge, I thought you might like to come in for a chat.”

“Um, oh no, I’m okay, I didn’t really know her,” Allie said. Bridget knew that was true, but that wasn’t really what she wanted to talk to her about anyway. 

“Right. I saw you with Franky earlier, you seem to be getting along really well?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Allie said, somewhat startled by the abrupt change of topic. Bridget felt abrupt though, her heart was racing and it felt good in a sense, better than the usual slow, dull thud. 

“This place can really mess with your head,” she said. “Especially when you’re vulnerable. I think it’s probably best not to, well, not to cross any boundaries at the moment, you know?”

“What are you talking about?” Allie asked as Bridget continued to accompany her. 

Please don’t let Franky fall in love with you, Bridget thought. Don’t fall for her. I need her. 

“Oh, just when you’ve had feelings for someone and you lose them a common mistake is to throw yourself into another relationship, which is not a solution at all,” Bridget said instead. She was sure that even thirteen year old girls knew about the concept of ‘dating on the rebound’, but it didn’t hurt to remind Allie. Allie had lost Bea recently too, and while she kept her feelings about Bea and her grief incredibly well-guarded, Bridget knew that Allie’s grief was real. Allie had loved Bea and had not faked those tears of loss in Bridget’s office. 

“Okay, thanks,” Allie said with wide eyes and a grimace. She walked ahead pushing the trolley. Bridget called out after her even though there was a part of her that was screaming inside her head for her to shut the fuck up already. 

“Well if you ever need to talk in depth or more you know where I am, okay?”

Allie did not acknowledge her and Bridget knew how desperate she had sounded. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and whispered a tired, frustrated, disbelieving, “Jesus, Bridget.” She fought the idea that she needed a drink. That was just a thought that had sprung to mind, it didn’t mean anything, it didn’t mean she had to drink. Plus, this wasn’t the time, and Franky wouldn’t want that for her. Franky’s mother had been a drunk, Liz was an alcoholic too; Bridget would not become that, she could not become another one of those women in Franky’s life. She was in a bad place, she could feel sad, but not like that, or not forever.

*

Bridget should have known that Allie would go straight to Franky with her new little story. 

‘Hey, Franky, have you seen Miss Westfall lately? She looks like shit, and she was talking about how we were hanging out and stuff, and she was talking about not jumping into a relationship after a loss and I think maybe she thinks we’re fucking? What the fuck?’

Bridget was setting up chairs for a group session in the library when Franky came in. 

“Do you want a hand?” Franky asked. 

“Nuh,” Bridget said. What she really wanted was to go home and cry under a hot shower. She was angry at herself for giving too much away to Allie and she was angry at Franky for forcing her hand like that, even though she knew it wasn’t Franky’s fault; she was surviving.

Franky walked in and started to help her put the chairs in a circle. Bridget couldn’t stand it. 

“Franky,” she said firmly, but she didn’t recognise her own voice, it sounded like some other girl on the verge of tears. She turned towards Franky with a chair in her hand and shook her head. “Please,” she said in a calmer, lower voice. Please no, don’t. Stop.

Franky walked straight to her. She stopped directly in front of her as Bridget put the chair down and looked into her eyes. Franky’s eyes were wide and sincere, her voice was soft. 

“I am not fucking Allie,” she said. “I would not do that to you.”

Bridget searched her eyes for any sign that she was lying, but Franky’s gaze did not waver, her eyes did not flicker, they bore directly into Bridget’s and not once did she look away. Bridget knew in her heart that Franky would not cheat on her like that; she had known for more than a year, before they even kissed. She should not have needed Franky to say it and yet she had needed to hear it. Tears filled her eyes and her lips trembled but she held herself together as she and Franky reasoned silently with one another, reaffirming where they stood. 

They should have been standing together; they both felt that they were, but knew that they weren’t.

Bridget nodded, and she understood why Franky then also nodded and quickly left. It was very ‘job done’ of her, but Bridget was grateful for that. They could not linger, they could not keep trying to have a relationship in the library or in her office, a minute here or there. It couldn’t work like that. Maybe Franky was just better at accepting it, maybe she had convinced herself that this was her job now; head down, keep Bridget calm, try to get out.

Bridget could not fault that plan, as long as ‘getting out’ didn’t also involve getting killed.

Of course, Franky could just as easily be killed in prison, and Bridget was reminded of that hours later after her group session, when she was packing her chairs up and Joan Ferguson waltzed into the library like she owned the space. Bridget continued to stack chairs while Ferguson observed her. Bridget knew all about Joan. Bridget had started at Wentworth when Joan was the Governor, and Bridget had been a witness to her downfall. She understood her psychopathy and she knew more about Joan’s history than most others. Bridget avoided her.

It was not just because Joan was intimidating – far more intimidating since she cut out Juice’s tongue and seemed not to have been punished in the slightest, in fact she had been elevated to Top Dog as a result of that heinous act – but it was because Ferguson knew about Bridget and Franky. She had never seen anything real, but she knew. She was as skilled in observation as Bridget, if not moreso, and she was calculating. Bridget did not want to be used by her to hurt or scare Franky, and she did not want Franky assaulted or killed as a way to do the same to Bridget. The risk was too high. Too many lives had already been ruined by this woman. 

“You look a little tired, Miss Westfall,” she said. “Tough session?”

She spoke like the female version of Hannibal Lector. Thomas Harris would have been proud. Bridget had re-read his novels just months earlier, she had only watched Silence of the Lambs with Franky a few weeks before her arrest, so the picture of the man and the timbre of his voice was fresh in her mind. Bridget wasn’t sure if Joan spoke that way deliberately to evoke such comparisons, or if it was something real that she and her fictional counterpart shared. They shared more than eerie intonation, though. They were both handy with scalpels.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bridget asked as she looked into Joan’s dark eyes. 

“I can see that this situation with Franky Doyle is having a negative emotional impact,” Ferguson said in a measured, low-pitched voice. It would have been soothing had there been any genuine emotion behind it. “I think you should know that you’re wasting your energy, she’s already moved on. I just saw her in the laundry with Novak, they were chewing at each other…like animals. Didn’t take her long to trade up to a younger, more attractive model, did it?”

Bridget stared at her. They were all animals, and Joan was aware when someone was prepared to look her in the eyes and stare her down. Bridget had never shied away from that. She pressed her lips together in a smug smile even though her mind was racing, and she knew Ferguson could see that. Did Joan know that Franky had come to her earlier? Had she been watching? Bridget knew that Ferguson was watching both of them. It wasn’t as though she necessarily had a direct hand in anything that was going on; no, they were just entertainment.

Bridget trusted Franky and she trusted her own instincts about when Franky was or wasn’t telling the truth, yet she felt raw and at-risk, and she was rattled by Ferguson, who was gloating with a barely-there smirk and glittering eyes because she saw as much. Bridget’s guarded blue eyes had filled with tears and she had to walk away before her smile faltered, if it hadn’t already. Bridget was not as skilled at dealing with Ferguson one-on-one as she would have liked, she did make mistakes – as anyone would, though she was perhaps better equipped to understand the need not to make mistakes than many others would be – but avoidance in a situation like this was critical, and Bridget felt no shame in walking away, she did not give a fuck if it made Joan feel powerful. She would not let Joan manipulate her.

She had, though, because Bridget went straight to Franky. Bridget knew her schedule and she caught her on the stairs. Franky had been walking quickly ahead, she hadn’t seen Bridget, didn’t seem to know Bridget was behind her, and Bridget felt tears sting her eyes. She sniffled as she thought perhaps she was invisible, or that was what Franky wished her to be. 

“Why do you keep lying to me?” Bridget said as soon as they were somewhat alone around a corner. Franky turned mid-stride, obviously surprised by Bridget and by her question. 

“Hey?” Franky asked. 

“And you gave Ferguson the pleasure of telling me,” Bridget said. Her voice cracked, she spread her hands out by her hips and did her best not to cry. It was too late, she thought. 

“Look, whatever Ferguson said was bullshit,” Franky insisted. She sounded earnest, she really did. She was looking Bridget in the eyes. But what if Bridget only thought she was? Or what if this whole ‘looking me in the eyes’ thing was the thing that was bullshit? What if Bridget had misunderstood or incorrectly assumed? Franky could be playing her. Franky seemed quite happy to use her when it suited her – her security pass, the vent in her office – so how could Bridget possibly believe that she wasn’t using her again, here and now?

“Now you’re lying again,” Bridget said. She felt safe in stating that as a fact. She believed Joan, even though she knew that she shouldn’t. She couldn’t help it. She hated her life now. 

Franky was busy trying to clarify. 

“What Ferguson thinks she saw and what actually happened are two different things.”

“So you’re denying it,” Bridget said. She looked into Franky’s eyes. Was she denying they were kissing? She assumed that was what Joan meant by ‘chewing at each other like animals’. Was it more than that? Had hands wandered towards breasts? Had Franky let Allie touch her, had she asked her to? Had Franky held Allie’s waist the way she held Bridget? Was it the same? Or better? 

Franky said nothing, but her eyes gave her away. Some of those things were true. Those eyes; Franky really wasn’t trying to hide anything, and Bridget could see that even as she genuinely began to cry. She felt like she had been trying to stop herself from reaching this point all day. She failed.

“Fucking say something, Franky,” she whispered as she wept. 

“It’s complicated,” Franky said eventually, on a gentle, regretful sigh. 

“No, no-no-no-no, it’s really fucking simple,” Bridget insisted. 

Franky lowered her gaze to Bridget’s torso, her eyes filled with tears but there was a blank, sad sort of expression on her face when she eventually looked Bridget in the eyes and shook her head. That meant no, but it also meant yes. Yes, something had happened with Allie.

Bridget half-laughed. It was a self-deprecating, degrading huff because she could not believe she had been so stupid as to believe that they were still together. They weren’t together! They were now leading two very different, separate lives, and Franky was moving on. Bridget loved her, she had meant it when she said she would wait forever and she still did want that, but as she walked away and dried her tears, she thought about whether she could wait, and she wondered how on earth she could possibly survive it if she did.

*

Bridget knew something had to change as soon as Liz called her out for being hammered at work. It was true, she hadn’t slept again, Vera had fobbed her off the evening before when all Bridget had wanted was to talk to someone, and Bridget had ended up at home, drinking on an empty stomach because she couldn’t be fucked to cook anything. Franky was the cook. 

Liz was an alcoholic, she knew the signs, and Bridget had drunk far more the night before Liz sprung her than she had on previous nights. She knew it was getting out of control, she felt like shit and she was numb and she was making herself sick. She was probably lucky it was Liz who had figured it out. Liz was not the sort of woman who would start telling everyone that Miss Westfall was an old soak, though maybe she might quietly tell Franky, and that in itself was devastating, it made Bridget want to go far away; she did not want to hurt Franky.

That night, Bridget found herself at Vera’s house. She had to talk to someone and she had no one else who she was close to. Her life was small, really. There were a few friends on the periphery, her old parents, but primarily her life was her work, Franky, and her friendship with Vera. The fucked up thing was that those three crucial parts were all inter-connected; she wasn’t apart from Franky when she was at work, not like she had been when Franky was on parole, excelling at her own job at Legal Relief. They had come home at the end of every day and had dinner together like a normal couple, like their own little family. That was lost. 

Bridget could not escape the grief, she could not escape that change that had happened in their lives – she was trapped in a job where every day she was faced with her lover – or her ex-lover, the woman she still loved – and with Vera there too, as both her friend and the prison’s Governor, there was nowhere to hide. Open disclosure was the best policy.

“You’ve been drinking,” Vera said gently. She seemed to agree. 

“I’ve just been trying to blot it all out,” Bridget admitted as she walked towards the kitchen, with Vera following. She turned to face her and saw only concern on her friend’s face. “You know? And I’ve made it…I’ve made it worse, Vera,” Bridget said. Her eyes filled with tears and she could hear her voice shaking. She just wanted someone to tell her that it would be all right, someone who wasn’t Franky, someone who had some kind of power to truly help her.

Vera wasn’t that person either, though, because no one other than Bridget could actually help her, and fuck, Bridget knew that. What was she going to do? Let Franky go? Not even close, especially not now. But Bridget had let Vera down. She had been drunk on the job and that was so much worse than falling in love with an inmate. If the women knew she was a drunk she would lose their respect, she could lose the safety they afforded her; she had put herself and the rest of the prison staff at risk. It only took one weak link to break a chain, right? 

That’s me, she thought. 

“I am so sorry about today, I bailed on you.” She started to cry as she tried to explain. She wanted to be totally honest, she thought she needed to be. “And I’m…I’m just not coping, you know? I miss her, I don’t know what to do.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she cried. “I can’t work it out,” she said as Vera whispered that it was okay, and pulled her into a hug. 

Bridget hugged her tightly. Vera was warm and sturdy, and Bridget cried into her shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Vera whispered again. She rubbed Bridget’s back and gave her time to compose herself. Bridget needed to cry and she had needed the hug more than she realised. It didn’t take long for her self to feel soothed and her tears to stop, and Vera made her a cup of tea. 

“I’m so sorry, Vera,” Bridget said. “You’re just the only one who understands the situation.”

“It’s okay,” Vera said softly. “But Bridget, you can’t turn up to work like that.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“If it happens again I can’t turn a blind eye.”

Bridget knew that. As Governor, Vera would not have a choice but to act. Vera would have to suspend her and report her, yet Bridget would never knowingly put Vera in that position.

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” Bridget assured her. She knew what she had to do to help herself, but she wanted someone else to agree it was the right thing to do, because Bridget was terrified. She was so fucking scared. She didn’t want to lose Franky even if she already had, and she didn’t want to lose Vera. They were important parts of her life, but they were just so fucking bound up with Wentworth; they were both always there, and what if Bridget wasn’t? Bridget had just needed to check, or to remind herself that Vera was her friend, too.

Because it would not happen again. She would go to the Governor in the morning and resign.


	33. Franky

Franky thought it was so cute how Boomer was so possessive about the garden project. It was totally kickass and awesome, and Franky could not have been more proud of her. Whoever knew that Boomer could weld and project manage? Franky had underestimated her along with everyone else, because Boomer had been her bestie and she hadn’t even known. What Franky had always known about Boomer, however, was how loyal she was, and how soft-hearted, and she did admit she was playing on that just a tiny bit. Franky was sorry about it, but there was an urgency to this whole Plan B that was starting to fidget around in her guts.

Bridget had been chasing after her, crying, worrying about her and Allie, and not believing Franky when she said they weren’t together. That was so unlike Bridget. Franky remembered calling her up before all this started and joking that she had an admirer because Andy at work had bought her flowers, and Bridget had been completely unfazed because she knew Franky loved her completely. But Ferguson was involved now; the Freak had seen her and Allie making out, only to disguise the real reason they had been in her path of course, and now she was whispering in Bridget’s ear with her vile, very probably exaggerated accusations that were completely untrue, but Franky knew how hard it was to keep that sickening voice out. Bridget was not super human, and she knew she was vulnerable to Ferguson, which was why she had been deliberately avoiding her for months. Ferguson was Top Dog now though, and it seemed like she could pretty much go wherever the fuck she wanted, no questions asked.

That meant Bridget was at risk, and not just at risk of having a few useless rumours shoved down her throat. Her tongue, perhaps? Franky was pretty sure making someone swallow their own tongue was a Hannibal special, and Ferguson was such an expert at cutting them out. 

Franky wanted to throw up every time she thought about it, and if it was Bridget? Fuck no.

“So if you are gonna work here,” Boomer said as she introduced Franky and Allie to the garden project, which was manufacturing vertical garden packs to be shipped out for sale. Boomer had hired them reluctantly because Allie had used her feminine wiles and a little blackmail to keep the project running for them. “All right? There’s three important rules.”

This’ll be good, Franky thought, as she put Ferguson out of her mind. She was going to get out, she was going to fix this for her and Bridget. Bridget would never have to worry that there was any other girl, not ever again. There wouldn’t be. It was fucking impossible.

“You listening?” Boomer asked. 

“Yep,” Franky and Allie said. 

“All right,” Boomer began. “Rule number one is I’m in charge. Rule number two, is I’m in charge.”

Franky didn’t hold her insistence against her. Boomer had always been Franky’s sidekick. Franky had been Top Dog and Boomer was her minion. She was the chick that cracked heads when Franky didn’t want to get her hands dirty. She had been Franky’s bodyguard, in a way, because she was tall and strong despite her pudgy frame. She could be fucking intimidating.

Boomer wanted to be respected, that was all. This was her thing and she didn’t want Franky coming in to take over. Franky understood that, she did not want to be a leader anymore.

“Guess what rule number three is?” Boomer asked.

“You’re in charge?” Allie suggested. 

“Fuckin’ bingo!” Boomer declared. “All right, so don’t stuff it up.”

“Thanks Booms,” Franky said with a gentle smile. Allie went off to inspect the boxes but Boomer and Franky hung back together and engaged in a little playful eye contact. They still had a bond, they were friends even if the relationship wasn’t the same as it had been before.

“Well, it might be kinda nice to have you around,” Boomer mentioned. 

“Oh yeah?” Franky asked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Boomer said. They smiled at each other and jostled until Boomer got serious. She was in charge now, after all, and Franky had heard she was a tough boss. “Just…start work.”

Franky turned to Allie as Boomer walked away to supervise the other women. Allie had hold of one of the wooden boxes they had made for shipping, and it looked a promising size. Franky grinned at her. 

“Well I guess you were right,” Allie said hopefully. “You’ll be leaving here in a box.”

Franky hesitated briefly as she remembered those words and the first time she said them. 

‘Anger and hope, that’s you all over,’ Bridget had said in her office, as Franky sat opposite her for their first ever counselling session. Franky had been curious about her, she liked her.

‘There’s no fuckin’ hope,’ Franky had told her. 

‘You’re wrong,’ Bridget had said. She had sounded sure and Franky had wanted to scoff. In hindsight, Bridget had already seen hope in Franky, in the way that she studied law and applied herself, in the lightness of her eyes even though she had been shit-terrified of Tina and Cindy Lou at that time. She was due for parole, Vera was letting her apply for parole, they had both known that. ‘I’m gonna help you get out of here,’ Bridget had assured her.

‘Yeah well stick around,’ Franky had said, trying to be a realist, not a dreamer. Parole and a life on the outside had seemed so impossible. ‘Cos I’m going to be leaving here in a coffin.’

Franky had almost thought she had gotten away with leaving Wentworth on foot. Maybe not.

“Doyle,” Linda called out from behind her. Franky turned. “Miss Westfall will see you now.”

Fucking ace, Franky thought. She had desperately been trying to see her but Bridget hadn’t been there and that was unusual and Franky just wanted to talk to her, she wanted to hold her. She didn’t really want to leave in a box and she knew Bridget didn’t want that, and for all the times in the past where Franky hadn’t wanted to think positively or to talk about herself, now all she wanted to do was to sit with Bridget and talk. They could work this shit out together. 

Franky was stunned when she got to Bridget’s office only to see that Bridget’s university degrees were off the wall and she was putting her shit into a cardboard box. Her bag was packed and on one of the therapy chairs, her desk was clean. 

“What’s going on? What are you doing?” Franky asked.

“I’ve resigned,” Bridget said. She sounded tired as she put her small pot-plant into the box. 

“Nuh, no fucking way!” Franky insisted quickly. Her voice cracked as she ambled forwards.

Bridget turned to her and spread her arms. Her voice was choked and earnest. 

“I can’t be here anymore,” she admitted. She scoffed, at herself more than anything else. 

No, no, no, no, Franky thought as she hurried towards her. It’s not your fault, Gidget.

“I swear, there’s nothing going on between Allie and I,” Franky said as she clasped Bridget’s hands by their hips. She was directly in front of her, she looked deeply into her blue eyes. 

Please believe me, Franky thought. She knew the Freak was in Bridget’s head but Bridget was strong enough to override that voice, she was stronger than Franky, she had to be. 

Bridget looked her in the eyes and shook her head as she smiled. 

“I don’t care about Allie,” she said in a lighter, ‘can’t you see?’ voice. “I care about you.”

Fuck, Franky thought. She cared too. She loved her. Didn’t Bridget believe that?

Why would she though, Franky reasoned, when Franky hadn’t said it since she was arrested, even after Bridget said it to her and after Franky had pushed her away so violently in her cell, on top of everything else? Fuck, Franky had really fucked this up, Bridget was audibly hurt. 

“And I fell really fucking hard,” Bridget continued as her sad eyes searched Franky’s for understanding. “And I can’t deal with this. I can’t be here and not be with you anymore.”

She sounded so fucking certain of that, and Franky was so fucking sorry. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. They were in this mess because of her and Franky didn’t understand why, yet, but she was going to figure it out and she would put things right for both of them.

“Give me some time and I can fix that,” she promised. She gripped Bridget's hands and felt them shaking. Her palms were clammy, her fingers were trembling. Franky tried to hold tight.

Bridget smiled more calmly at her and lifted her face into a stronger position. 

“How are you gonna do that?” she asked. There was a challenge in her semi-stern, bemused expression for Franky to talk to her, to really talk to her about this escape plan and what was going on. All Bridget had wanted from the start was to be involved, to try to help, but Franky couldn’t let her in this way. Aiding and abetting could be considered the same as doing the crime itself sometimes, and if escaping could get Franky six months in jail, she didn’t want Bridget to strip down for six months in teal either. Fuck, she would be fucking murdered!

“I dunno,” Franky said, because the escape plan was so fucking far-fetched and desperate that in all honesty Franky did not know how she was going to get out to fix anything. She wasn’t lying to Bridget, she was telling her the truth! “Just don’t leave me,” Franky begged her. 

Bridget Westfall was the only woman Franky had ever truly pleaded with. She had begged Bridget for her trust and for her freedom, she had begged for Bridget’s touch, for her love. Franky didn’t know how to be at Wentworth without her. Almost as soon as they met she had become an integral feature of the place, and Franky always felt so fucking safe with her. She felt safer just knowing that Bridget was there, even if they were half a prison apart. Maybe that was wrong though, maybe it meant she was taking risks that she otherwise wouldn’t, it was hard to tell because all Franky thought about was going home and being with Bridget. 

“All I think day and night is you,” Bridget whispered. 

Franky grinned and laughed at their shared wavelength, at how alike they thought sometimes. 

Franky swiftly but tenderly traced her fingertips through Bridget’s hair and pushed her hair behind her ears as she held her face in her warm palms. She wanted Bridget to feel safe too, she did, and Franky could protect her, she knew she could protect them both. That was all she cared about, it was all she had been trying to do since she set foot back inside Wentworth. 

“So stay, don’t give up on us,” Franky reasoned, but Bridget scoffed and shook her head. 

“Look at me, Franky,” she said. She ran her hands over her hair and the top of her head as Franky held her jaw in two hands. “Look at me,” Bridget said again. 

I see you, Franky tried to tell her with her eyes. She was beautiful. Yeah she was tired, she probably felt a hundred years old and Franky knew that part of all the Allie stuff had to do with the fact that Bridget was forty-seven; more than ten years older than Franky and definitely more than ten years older than Allie. But Franky didn’t give a fuck about age, she never had. Franky could ‘look at her’ every fucking day for the rest of her life and be happy. She loved that for the first time in her life she was in an adult relationship with a real woman, and she felt so much more mature and like a woman herself because of it, because that was how Bridget treated her, and Franky had felt loved and healthy and amazing with her, and it was all because of Bridget, because Franky had fallen in love with her, and didn’t Bridget remember the way that Franky kissed around her eyes, and down her neck, and across the taut stomach that any forty-seven year old woman on the planet would be fucking proud of?

No, Bridget wasn’t thinking about that, Franky realised. She couldn’t see beyond her pain. 

“I’m a mess,” Bridget said. 

Franky lifted her hands from Bridget’s face only to return them – a gentle stroke to hold her again – as Bridget ran her hands once more through her own tussled hair. 

“I can’t look in the mirror,” Bridget explained. “I can’t even see myself.” 

She looked and sounded haunted as Franky stroked both sides of her face again, her soft skin. Franky’s fingertips lingered in the short hairs at the back of her neck. Franky loved her hair too. She didn’t stop touching her and stroking her face and her neck as she talked, she wanted them to stay together. Franky never wanted to imagine a day where she couldn’t touch her.

“If you just hang in there,” Franky insisted. “I’ll find a way for us to be together. We can get out of this place, we can go to another fucking country. We’ll start fresh, we’ll start again.”

Bridget pressed her lips together and smiled. Her narrowed eyes glittered. 

“You’re dreaming,” she whispered. 

She didn’t sound sad about that. Dreaming was okay, right? Dreaming meant hope, and Franky had plenty of it now. She tried to share some of it with Bridget as she smiled. 

Bridget lifted her hands to hold Franky’s jaw and neck as well. She wasn’t shaking anymore. Franky’s thumbs rested either side of Bridget’s chin and Bridget’s thumbs stroked back towards Franky’s ears. As they touched each other’s faces they smiled with their eyes more than their lips. God, Franky wanted to kiss her. She was fucking art, with the softest lips.

Franky had one of those interrupting moments when she felt Bridget’s ring against her neck and she thought about how she missed her jewellery, she hoped it was safe in prison storage, but Bridget’s words soon brought her back to the present; she sounded deceptively soothing.

“We have to make a clean break,” Bridget said. “For both our sakes.”

She let go of Franky as Franky’s expression turned to one of disbelief. She had thought Bridget had been about to agree with her, she had thought Bridget might change her mind.

“What, so that’s it?” Franky asked as Bridget collected her things; her bag over her shoulder, her box in her arms. Bridget walked to the door without a word. 

It was all happening way too quickly. This could not be the last time Franky saw Bridget. She could not let this be the last time they talked. Not like this, it was not going to end like this!

“I fuckin’ love you!” Franky insisted. She knew that would get Bridget’s attention. They used to say it all the fucking time, and Franky hadn’t said it since she donned the teal tracksuit but her clothes meant jack shit, they didn’t change who she was, they didn’t change how she felt.

She desperately did not want Bridget to go. She did not want to lose her. She had to know-

“I fuckin’ love you, too,” Bridget assured her as she turned back to look her in the eyes. 

Thank fuck for that, Franky thought, barely relieved by Bridget’s sincerity and the fact she had answered Franky’s question before Franky had the chance to ask it. 

“It’s not over,” Franky told her just as sincerely. Two people who loved each other like they did, they didn’t just turn around and walk away. They were meant to be together forever!

Bridget would have scoffed at that and called her an old romantic, but fuck it; Franky was a dreamer, she was a romantic and a passionate person, she was fierce and strong but she was in love too, she was vulnerable too, and she was fucking proud of it and she wasn’t ashamed. She would find a way to fight smarter, they could find a way together, and she would tell Bridget that she loved her every fucking day she was in this shit-hole if only Bridget stayed. 

Please, please stay. Don’t leave, she wished. Don’t leave me. 

“Bye Franky,” Bridget whispered, near tears as she opened the door. She walked out, she let the door go to close behind her but Franky would not let Bridget have the last word. That was not how it worked with them; they always talked this shit out and Bridget could not just walk away if they were still in love. Bridget knew that good relationships did not end like that.

“No,” Franky choked out, though she didn’t think she made the actual word. “We’re not done!” she called out more clearly. 

Franky had never been more sure, but Bridget didn’t turn around, she did not look back. 

Franky felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She laid one hand on her belly as she took a deep breath and tried to work out what the fuck had just happened and if it was real. She actually had never been dumped before? She hated the gut-wrenching feeling that she had failed. Franky always – fucking always – had made sure that if she was seeing anyone, that it never got serious and that she ended things. No person she had cared so much about had left her like that since her dad, and Franky hated that she immediately thought of him, because Bridget didn’t deserve that comparison and Franky wasn’t ten years old anymore. 

She just did not know what she was going to do without Bridget, her gorgeous Gidget. What about their life together? What about their home? Would Bridget send in a box of her stuff? Wasn’t that how it went; ‘Here, have your shit CDs back, but I’m keeping your old shirt’?

Franky collapsed into one of the chairs in Bridget’s office and chewed on her bottom lip. She didn’t think or feel much of anything other than her own racing heart until Vera walked in.

“Bridget said you might be here still. I think she told you she’s resigned, and I accepted it.”

Franky could only nod. A tear trickled onto her cheek and she swiped it away. She felt sick. 

“Are you all right?” Vera asked, pointedly compassionate if not slightly awkward.

Franky pressed her lips together and shook her head. She just lost the love of her life? Fuck!

“I think you should go back to your cell, Franky. You shouldn’t be here.”

Franky wanted to sob, she wanted to scream. Damn straight, she shouldn’t ‘be here’, and it wasn’t her cell! It was ‘a’ cell, that she was trapped in because the cops thought she murdered Pennisi and she didn’t. He was the one who had tried to kill her in her own car, for fuck’s sake! Someone was out there fucking up her life, and they had ruined the best thing ever. 

And Franky wasn’t kidding herself; she had done a pretty good job at ruining it too, because that was just what she did to all the stellar people in her life, right? She pushed them away until they felt they had no choice but to step away? Her and Bridget was the most meaningful relationship she had ever had, and she had completely fucked it up, accidentally-on-purpose.

Vera led Franky back part of the way in silence, kind of like she understood, but then Franky was left on her own, to go back to a single bed with a metal frame and lumpy mattress, and she couldn’t do what she usually did which was close her eyes and imagine her future life, because everything she always imagined didn’t matter anymore, and wouldn’t happen. Even if she got out of Wentworth now she would be alone, and she had her dad and her sister but that was different. She wanted Bridget. She wanted to wake up in the morning with Bridget. 

The fact she couldn’t do that wasn’t all her fault, but if Bridget wasn’t there to help her and if Bridget wasn’t waiting for her on the other side of the gates, then what hope did she have? 

Fuck it, Franky thought as she walked into Allie’s cell. She was heartbroken and she was trying so hard not to cry. She really only knew two ways to stop herself from collapsing into a sobbing heap when she was on the edge like this. She could get angry, but what was the point? Franky found it harder to get angry; she had stopped forcing herself to be constantly prepared for a fight, so unless anger snuck up on her she really had to psych herself up, and she just didn’t have the energy. Bridget wouldn’t want her losing it, either. They were both in pain, they were both too fucking tired, and if anyone had the right to be angry it was Bridget. 

‘I fell really fucking hard,’ Bridget had said. That’s my fault, Franky thought. I fucked her.

Allie asked what was wrong because Franky’s eyes were full of the tears she refused to cry. 

Franky knew Bridget would like this second option even less, but hey, everyone thought they were fucking anyway, and Bridget was the one who left. She had promised that she wouldn’t, and Franky had really started to believe it. What if Franky never saw her again? What would their future be? She was aching. Franky just wanted to be held and touched, and she wanted someone weaker to make her feel powerful, because Bridget had stripped her of half a heart. 

She kissed Allie, and the rest was a blur as she tried to forget Bridget, to block out her life.

“Come on, let’s do this,” she said when Allie protested beneath her on the bed. Allie said it was wrong but when Franky asked her if she was sure, she said no, and they kissed hurriedly. Franky straddled her. She lifted a white shirt and pushed down the teal pants to kiss across a flat stomach. It wasn’t Bridget’s stomach, it wasn’t her olive-pink skin and it was missing the scattering of little moles in the centre that Franky used to moan against. This didn’t smell like Franky’s lover, but it was still warm and alive and it felt good to hold a body in her hands. 

“No, wait, I can’t, it’s too soon,” Allie insisted before it could go any further. Allie, Franky reminded herself. The woman Bea was in love with. This wasn’t a random fuck, it was Allie. 

“Yeah, I know,” Franky said as she pulled away and stood. “Just forget about it.” She left and hurried to her cell to shut herself inside it. Her cell? Yep, she thought it too. Franky huddled on the bed with her pillow on her lap and loudly sobbed into the wall. She didn’t care if Allie could hear her, she didn’t care if anyone saw her. She could still smell Bridget, she could feel her touch and hear her voice, but Franky also felt like she was forgetting her. They were lost.


	34. Bridget

Bridget zipped up the overnight bag on her bed just as she heard a knock on the door. She checked her watch. It was early and she was still in her pyjamas, but for once she was not hungover, and she had actually slept really fucking well. She was trying not to feel guilty.

“Who is it?” Bridget called out as she strode towards the front door carrying her bag. She dumped it in the hallway in preparation for her later departure, and stared at the solid door. She missed her old door; the grand frame with the opaque glass that she could always sort of see through, to at least give her an idea about who was visiting her. So few people ever did. 

“It’s me,” Vera replied. “Sorry it’s so early-”

Bridget didn’t mind. She knew Vera would be on her way to Wentworth and was only checking in for a minute, to make sure Bridget was okay. Bridget was sober, she had nothing to hide so she opened the door to her friend and briefly hoped that Franky was all right. 

Vera smiled at her, and Bridget knew immediately that Franky was fine. Or she would be.

“Good morning,” Bridget said with a curious smile of her own. “Checking up on me?”

“Something like that,” Vera said. Her pale eyes scanned Bridget’s face. “How are you?”

“Do you want to come in?” Bridget asked. She gestured to Vera’s uniform. “I know you’re on your way in, but…coffee?”

“Okay,” Vera agreed with a gentle smile. She did not miss the bag in the hallway as Bridget let her inside and closed the door behind her. “Are you going away? Out of town?”

“Not even,” Bridget said as she led Vera to the kitchen. “I just thought a, um, a few days at a hotel in the city where I could sleep in a fresh bed and walk to a restaurant every now and then might help. Maybe I’ll get a massage and some decadent desserts from Room Service.”

“Sounds nice,” Vera assured her. “I’m sorry, Bridget-”

“No, no, none of that,” Bridget said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She filled the coffee machine and set it to brew them each a cup, before she turned to Vera and smiled softly. “I’m okay, it was my call.” She shrugged easily. “And it was the right decision, Vera. I shouldn’t have even let it get to that point the other day, because in truth I have been…thinking about resigning for a long time, for much longer than you would think, and if anything I’m sorry that I didn’t speak to you about that decision earlier. I let myself become ineffective.”

“What will you do?” Vera asked. “Another prison?” 

“There aren’t that many near the city that I haven’t worked with in one way or another, so I don’t know,” Bridget said. She didn’t think she was up for an interstate move either, not in the fragile state she was in, sober or not. “I’ll take some time to think about it,” she said. “Private practice? I haven’t let myself think far beyond today, and possibly tomorrow.” She smiled and playfully wiggled her eyebrows until Vera scoffed and looked away, embarrassed that she was amused when this was such a serious decision Bridget had made for her life.

Vera licked her lips and crossed her arms before looking back into Bridget’s eyes. 

“Do you want to know about yesterday?” Vera asked. She didn’t have to say any more. 

Bridget nodded. Yeah, she wanted to know about Franky. She fucking loved her. 

“She was in your office, like you said,” Vera said. “She was upset. I showed her back to her cell, or most of the way at least, just uh, because I thought if Ferguson chose that moment to launch an attack, Doyle wouldn’t try to defend herself. What did you say to her, Bridget?”

Tears filled Bridget’s eyes and she pressed her lips together to smile sadly at her best friend. 

“I said goodbye,” she whispered in a choked voice. She nodded to reassure herself, because that had been the right decision too. Bridget already felt lighter. She had driven away from Wentworth into the sunshine and she had been warmed by the day, as though suddenly it was spring and the ice that had wrapped itself around her heart and stomach had thawed. She had gotten home and stood under her shower for half an hour, before she wrapping herself up in pyjamas and a blanket, and she had laid down in the backyard to soak up the sun and the sky.

She was safe, and she felt free of that place and all of its horrors. 

“Did you end things with Franky as well?” Vera asked. 

Bridget laughed a bit under her breath and shrugged again. Fuck, she didn’t even know. 

“Maybe,” she said. 

“I’m worried about you, Bridget,” Vera said plainly. “And I’m sorry that I’ve been distracted-” She paused as the coffee machine ground to a halt and Bridget handed her a cup. She accompanied Bridget to the dining room table and they sat. “I should have told you about Jake, and I should have made more time to ensure that you and Franky were coping. I’ve been a lousy friend, and I wanted to call last night but thought you probably needed space.”

“I’m okay, Vera,” Bridget told her again. She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Or I will be.”

“You love her that much?” Vera asked. She watched carefully as Bridget pressed her lips together in a sad pout and nodded. “Still?” Vera asked. 

“You can’t just turn it off,” Bridget said. She laughed again and rolled her eyes. “I’ve tried.”

“You mean Shiraz doesn’t come with an in-built off switch?” Vera asked, feigning surprise. 

They laughed and Bridget reluctantly shook her head with glittering eyes and a fraudulently reluctant pout. Vera was relaxed and she was joking about it, and Bridget appreciated that. 

“I am sober, by the way,” she added with a raised brow once Vera’s laughter stopped. “I haven’t had a drink in days.”

“I can see that,” Vera said with wise, narrowed eyes. “But…you’re not having me on with this, ‘I’m fine’ business? You can talk to me, Bridget, and I just hope you’re not going to this hotel to do anything stupid. I think Franky might kill me with her bare hands if I ever had to pass on any awful news like that. I’d do it, of course, it would be my duty, but I don’t think she would cope if anything happened to you, and I truly mean that, regardless of yesterday.”

Vera might have been skirting around the matter but Bridget saw straight to it; Vera was worried Bridget was going to check into a hotel, drink herself into a stupor, and kill herself.

“I promise,” Bridget began as she leant across the table. She covered Vera’s nearest hand with one of her own and looked into her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Vera.”

“Good,” Vera said in a soft voice, with a brief smile. “You’re both good people,” she added. “I want you to know I won’t hold any of this against Franky. I’m still limited in what I can do but I don’t think she killed Mike Pennisi, and I know this has been a really terrible time.” 

“Thank you,” Bridget whispered kindly. She sat back again and sipped at her cup of coffee. “Augh, I just need a break, Vera. You know? Years upon years of those places, the people, the politics between the screws and the women, the concrete, the apathy, the petty bullshit? The situation with Franky has been the last straw, but even before Bea died I could feel that prison dragging me down, but Franky motivated me to keep going because I could come home to her, to our home, and I saw how much she achieved. She’s a success story, Vera, and I thought what I was doing was worthwhile, but now she’s hurting and lost, I can’t make it better, and I can’t cope being there every day with her, achieving nothing with the other women, and coming back here without her telling me that tomorrow will be better.” Bridget looked into Vera’s eyes and grimaced. “You can come to me to talk, as well. I’d like that.”

“Well, we’re still friends, right?” Vera asked hopefully. Bridget smiled and nodded. “Good.”

“Will you look out for her?” Bridget asked. “Please? She might do something stupid.”

“I’ll try,” Vera promised her, and not for the first time. “What happens if she’s convicted?”

“I don’t know,” Bridget whispered. Tears filled her eyes again. She looked upwards and shrugged. “I don’t want to think about it.” It hurt too fucking much. She was still so tired. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vera said as a tear rolled down Bridget’s cheek. “You should try not to think about it. Don’t cry, Bridget,” she whispered. She tried to joke. “It’s too early.” 

“I’ve been trying not to think about a life without her and it hasn’t been working,” Bridget said. She took a deep breath, composed herself, and looked assuredly into Vera’s eyes once more. “I’ve decided to embrace it. It is what it is, life is unexpected like that sometimes, and I won’t fight change. I need some time to myself to accept my choices, but I’m done fighting.”

“Does this hotel at least have a decent bath?” Vera asked. 

Bridget chuckled and nodded. 

“Yeah. Last night after I made the reservation I went to the shops and even bought bubbles.”

“For the bath?” Vera asked with a raised brow. 

“Not champagne,” Bridget confirmed with a droll smirk. She softened and looked into Vera’s eyes. “I just want to be okay, Vera,” she whispered. “I need to look after myself now, because I haven’t been.” She laughed sadly and shook her head at her own failures as she explained. “I got too used to Franky looking after me, you see. The food, the house? She’s actually really fucking nurturing, but she’s not here and I’m sad. I needed to walk away before I forgot who I was, before Joan used me to hurt her or you, and before I sabotaged my own career, and maybe my life? Ferguson knew I wasn’t coping; it was only a matter of time.”

“I understand all of that,” Vera said. She smiled hopefully. “Thank you for telling me. You sound like you’ve really thought about this, which is good. I want you to be okay, too.”

“I will be,” Bridget assured her. She nodded and took another sip of her coffee. She had gotten home from work the day Liz busted her and she had poured all her remaining alcohol down the sink. She wasn’t going to touch it for the foreseeable future, and it had nothing to do with what Franky might have wanted or expected; Bridget owed herself some love too. 

It was all right that she was sad, that didn’t mean it was the end. Hold tight, she told herself.

“Are you leaving right away?” Vera asked. “Check-in isn’t usually until early afternoon?”

“I’m not exactly dressed,” Bridget teased as she gestured to her flannel pyjamas that had felt the best to sleep in the night before. Vera chuckled as Bridget continued. “But you’re right, I won’t leave until this afternoon and I’m not going far, remember. You can call me, and it’s just for a few days. I’ll be back here soon. I’m packed except for this fashionable ensemble and a handful of toiletries, but there are a couple of things I want to do today before I leave.”

One was to clean the house, not in an attempt to vanquish any trace of Franky, which Vera might assume, though it wouldn’t hurt if there were fewer reminders of her scattered around. Franky was just neater, and Bridget had taken advantage of her natural and institutionalised affection for order and cleanliness. Bridget could not remember the last time she cleaned the floors and the bathroom, but of course she could do it too. There was no reason she shouldn’t.

The second thing she wanted to do was more complicated. She was going to work up to it.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right today on your own?” Vera asked. “You look tired, Bridget.”

“I am tired,” she admitted. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted, Vera. But that’s all right, I’ll sleep.” 

That night in fact she was going to be sleeping in a gloriously plush bed in a five star hotel, and she could cuddle up to her pillows and cry if she wanted, or she could simply sleep. Franky wouldn’t be with her but that was all right, and at least she could rest without that dreadful little voice in her head counting down the hours until she next had to be at work.

Good decision, Bridget thought. Just in time. 

*

Bridget took a deep breath later that day as she walked up the front path of the small rental deep in the suburbs. The plumber’s van full of supplies was in the driveway; he was home. 

Franky’s dad opened the door before Bridget could even knock. His light blue eyes were wide and he ran a hand over his shaved, red hair. His face was fair and freckled. He looked so unlike Franky in many ways, but Tessa looked a lot like Franky, so the important genes that made the Doyle girls into their beautiful selves were in Allan also, and there were other just as valuable similarities. He was caring and sensitive, more than Bridget might have known if she hadn’t met him. In truth, she had not spent a lot of time with him. It had taken weeks for Franky to confess to Bridget that her dad had been in touch, and that she had a little sister. It had then taken weeks for Franky to feel comfortable enough with them to introduce Bridget. 

Bridget understood why. On top of everything else, she’d had to come out to her dad. He left when she was ten, he hadn’t known she was gay and she hadn’t known how he would react. 

“How’s Franky? Is she okay?” Allan asked as soon as Bridget stopped in front of him. 

Franky needn’t have worried, Bridget thought, because Allan did love both of his daughters.

“She’s okay,” Bridget said. Her eyes filled with tears anyway, just like his had. He led her into his home and in the living room Bridget looked around for Tessa. Allan had said on the phone that she had been sent home from kindy with a fever, so he had already left work to get her when Bridget got up the courage to call and ask to see him. “Is Tess asleep?” she asked.

“Not yet, just playing in her room,” Allan said with a soft smile. They sat on chairs in the living room and Allan leant over his knees and clasped his hands. He shrugged. “I gave her some children’s Panadol and she needs a sleep. She’s feeling crook but I think it’s just a cold. The school refuses to give out Panadol and stuff, and any kid with a fever gets sent home.”

“I see,” Bridget said with a gentle smile. She bit her bottom lip and crossed her legs. “So…I have some news. I don’t know how you’ll feel about it but I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Just tell me,” he said as his eyes again grew serious and shone with tears. “Is she hurt? Has something happened with the case? Is there more evidence? She didn’t kill that guy, Bridget.”

“I know that,” Bridget assured him. “And Franky is safe. I spoke to her yesterday and I spoke to the Governor this morning. Vera’s my friend and I trust her, I promise you all is well.”

Allan released a heavy sigh and nodded. He shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Bridget said. Her voice shook as she wiped at her own eyes. “The truth is I might not see Franky again for a while. I’ve resigned from Wentworth, Allan.”

Allan looked up sharply but not angrily. His eyes were wide and searching. Bridget nodded.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did something happen with Franky? I mean, between ya?”

“It’s just hard seeing her in there every day,” Bridget said. “It just got too hard. I’m sorry.” She choked back a sob and shook her head to try to stop herself from crying. “I really tried.”

“Oh, I know,” Allan sighed. He leant forward and clasped Bridget’s knee. “It’s all right, you did good. Franky really appreciated everything, having you there, all o’that. I don’t know how many other people would have stuck it out so long in a place like that, seeing her there every day behind bars. I couldn’t do it, you know? All those years with her mum and her; I walked away too, cos I couldn’t stand to see what was happening to my gorgeous girl.”

“She’ll hate me,” Bridget whispered as tears fell to her cheeks and she brushed them away.

“She won’t hate ya,” Allan assured her with a broad grin. “She loves ya, she told me.”

Bridget nodded. Franky had told her too. 

“Franky hated me because she was ten and I was her dad,” Allan said. “What I should have done, what I think about doing every day, is going back for her that night when I knew her mum would be passed out. I’d pluck her out of bed and take her with me and we’d start a new life together, just her and me. I reckon she would have had a bag packed just in case that happened, but it never did. I had the ability to get my little girl out of an abusive home with my own two hands, and I didn’t. You don’t have that power, Bridget. She knows that, yeah?”

“I hope so,” Bridget whispered. She laughed and dried her tears. “Sorry, I can’t stop crying.”

“It’s okay. And I’ll tell ya what else,” Allan said as he sat back and sighed. “A part of her will be glad that you’ve left. She used to tell me she worried about you working there without her, cos apparently you had a security pass and you could just go wherever, unescorted, unarmed, and anyone could have grabbed you at any time and really hurt you. Is that true?”

Bridget nodded. 

“Well I figure, whatever has gone on between you and Franky…a part of it is cos of that.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did she push you away?”

Bridget shut her eyes and nodded. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “She does that. It’s not personal, y’know? She still loves ya, just like I reckon she still loves me.”

Bridget opened her eyes and smiled proudly at him. She nodded. That was absolutely true. 

“Has she called you?” Bridget asked. 

“Narr,” he said. He scrunched his nose up the same way Franky did when she didn’t want to talk about something, but he reconsidered and looked Bridget in the eyes. “Should I visit?”

“I think she’d like that,” Bridget said with a smile. 

“Do they let kids visit?” Allan asked. 

“Yes,” Bridget said. She nodded and crossed her arms. “A lot of the women are mothers of course, and their young children might visit with fathers or family members. However, ask Franky first, because she might find that too confronting, she might not want Tessa to see her there. Maybe take a few photographs of Tess to show her, to uh, to remind her what’s here.”

“That’s a good idea,” Allan said. “I’ve got some gorgeous ones from a few weeks ago. They’re good girls, Bridget.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bridget said with a soft smile. She sighed and Allan put his head in his hands. “I wish there was more I could do,” Bridget said. 

“Same,” Allan agreed. He groaned as he sat up straighter and looked around his living room. 

“Franky will ask for help when she’s ready,” Bridget told him. “Can I say hi to Tessa?”

“Oh sure,” Allan said. He smiled, stood, and gestured for her to follow him. “How about I make you a cuppa? You can stay for as long as you want, read her a book or play a game or something, or just sit with her, I don’t care. She’s as good as your little sister too.”

Bridget scoffed, because there was a forty-three year age difference between them, but she supposed at the end of the day that didn’t matter. She got to Tessa’s room and found the little girl with long, chocolate-brown hair playing cross-legged on the floor with her dolls. Two of the dolls were having a conversation and walking together, and Tessa’s lips were moving as she made them talk to each other, but she wasn’t speaking aloud. Bridget wondered if Tessa had a sore throat, her cheeks were a little blotchy and she looked tired and muted, but she still gasped and grinned when she saw Bridget, this woman she did remember but barely knew.

Tessa scrambled to her feet as Bridget knelt down on the rug to hug her. 

“Have you come to play with me, Bridgie?” Tessa asked. Her voice was cracked and she winced as she spoke. Bridget held her clammy face in both hands and soothed her cheeks with warm thumbs that brushed back and forth. “I’m sick,” Tessa whined. “My throat stings.”

“Shh, I know,” she whispered as tears of sympathy filled her eyes. Allan mumbled something about finding some syrup and left Bridget to deal with Tessa on her own. “Franky sent me to say hello and to play with you for a little while,” Bridget said as she looked into Tessa’s wide, absorbing brown eyes. “She heard you were sick! She misses you, sweetheart.”

“I miss her,” Tessa confirmed. She bit her bottom lip just like Franky did, and leant quietly into Bridget for another lingering hug. She snuggled in against Bridget’s breast and belly. 

Bridget turned her face into the top of Tessa’s head and kissed her. Bridget loved Tessa too. She was Franky’s little sister, her mini-me in many ways, because she was just as loving and sensitive as Franky and Allan both were, but she was bright and smiley because her life so far had been safe and happy, and Bridget knew Franky was determined to keep it that way. 

It had occurred to Bridget that if Pennisi had been following Franky for many months, he probably knew about Allan and Tessa. He could have told the person who killed him, and if they were intent on destroying Franky then Tessa was an easy target. Bridget was not sure if Franky had worried much about that yet, but even if she hadn’t it was all right; Bridget had. 

“Want me to read you a story?” Bridget asked. Tessa nodded and Bridget helped her into bed.


	35. Franky

Iman knew Pennisi and something was off, Franky was certain of it. It was just too much of a coincidence that he had commented all over her social media. What were the chances of that? They had to have something in common, there needed to be some kind of commonality for the two of them to follow each other online, right? No one followed randoms and commented on their posts just for the sake of it unless they were trolls, but Pennisi had not been trolling Iman – he was using his own name as his handle, for starters – and his posts were agreeable.

Franky was so fucking glad that Vera let her have Internet access to help Iman with her legal case, because it had led Franky straight back to Pennisi. Maybe Iman knew his mates, too.

Iman had denied that she knew Mike at all, but Franky wasn’t buying it. This was a fucking gift! Franky also still had all of Iman’s casework; all the information Iman had been given access to for her own defence and all of the extra stuff Franky sourced for her. Franky sat cross-legged on the bed in her cell to go through it all again, this time looking for anything that might lead her to the man Franky had burned, the man she was meant to have killed. If Pennisi’s name had been there she would have seen it already, but there had to be something. 

After half an hour of reading Franky stopped on a copy of Iman’s psych report from Trauma and Healing Australia. 

It was unlikely that Pennisi had connected with Iman when she was still in the detention centre, because those places were just illegal prisons for refugees so it wasn’t like she had been on social media all day every day drumming up followers. Pennisi was also an ex-chef-turned-hermit-stalker, as far as Franky had figured, so he had no reason to have met her there.

They did have one thing in common though, and Franky realised it as she read the psych report. It was a stretch because their backgrounds were so fucking different, but they were both victims of trauma, they both needed healing. Maybe they connected because of that? In real life or in a chat room, on a blog, on social media, whatever; Iman knew him, she had to. Franky just needed confirmation before she got mad and asked Iman why she was lying.

Without regular Internet access of her own, Franky would need help to confirm it. Franky decided on a plan as she carefully copied down the name and registration number of Iman’s psychologist. She wrote it on the top corner of her notebook and tore it out, to keep it safe.

Franky wasn’t even sure if this plan was going to work, or if the woman she wanted to speak to more than anything would help her. Franky hadn’t heard from Bridget since she left, and her heart thudded at the thought that she might get to speak to her soon. That day, if she could access the right phone. She did not want any conversation with Bridget recorded and she did not want to risk being overheard, not after Ferguson figured out that Franky had been in touch with her dad and threatened Tessa. Franky hadn’t stopped worrying about them since, and the last thing she wanted was to be sent more photos of Bridget, like Pennisi had done.

There was only one contraband phone that Franky knew about, and Franky was feeling brave. 

She went to Kim’s cell, and found her ex-girlfriend checking her scarred face in the mirror. Kim had flipped out on Meth months earlier, and had scaled the fence and tried to escape through the barbed wire. Her face would never be the same, but her scars were not as bad as she thought. Franky didn’t think she on drugs anymore either, she just helped bring them in.

“Hey,” Franky said to get her attention. 

“Franky,” Kim said. She was surprised. Franky hadn’t come to her cell in years, since before Kim herself had gotten parole, long before Franky met Bridget. Franky was a different person then. She had used Kim for her own personal satisfaction and she never loved her, and Kim discovered that when she returned to Wentworth only to learn Franky loved someone else.

Franky stepped into the cell but not before checking that they were alone in the unit. 

“I need to borrow the mobile,” she whispered in earnest.

“What mobile?” Kim asked, somewhat defiant. They had kept their distance from each other since Franky returned to Wentworth as well; Franky was not the only one who had changed.

“I know Tina’s got one stashed,” Franky said. 

“Unbelievable,” Kim said with a smirk. “You only speak to me when you want something.”

“Kimmy-”

“Fuck off!” Kim huffed as she turned her back. 

“Kimmy please,” Franky said. “There’s no one else who can help me, it’s really important.” 

“Who do you wanna call?” Kim asked as she looked into Franky’s eyes and raised her brow.

This was a dare, Franky realised. Kim thought Franky only had one person on the outside. She didn’t know Franky and been patching things up with her dad, she knew about Bridget.

“Bridget,” Franky mumbled. There was no point trying to lie. 

“Ha, fucking slag,” Kim said under her breath as she laughed. 

“She’s not a slag,” Franky hissed in reply. 

“She resigned! What, did she dump you cos you’re back in here?” Kim asked. 

“We broke up, yeah,” Franky said slowly. She shook her head and spread her arms. “But it was mutual, it was too hard, for both of us.” 

It had not taken long for Franky to realise that. At some point on that first night after Bridget left, Franky had sat on her bed and she had looked at where she was. She had remembered the stunned, exhausted look on Bridget’s face when she said she couldn’t even look herself in the mirror, she couldn’t see herself; Franky never wanted Bridget to feel like that, she never wanted to hurt her or to be the reason that she lost herself. Franky had pushed her away, and Bridget had stepped away, and that was a decision they had both come to in different ways, at different times, and that was all right. It had been their right decision, it was all they could do. 

“Sucks being you,” Kim said, without any understanding. “Now you know how it feels.”

“Kimmy, I didn’t want to hurt you,” Franky said in earnest. She honestly did care about what happened to Kim, and Franky didn’t want to be that chick who hurt everyone anymore, so she had to do something about the hurt look on Kim’s face, and if helped her to get her hands on that mobile, then great. “I just fell in love with her,” Franky said. She nodded to herself as she stared at Kim and silently begged her to look her in the eyes, so that then Kim could see just how deeply Franky felt it. “It was the first time I ever let myself go there,” Franky explained. Her voice cracked. “And it just wasn’t something I could control, you know?” she asked.

She was in love with this woman who had left, whose help she desperately now needed to beg for, and it fucking ached. Franky missed her every fucking day. Kim had to understand.

Kim smiled and nodded, but her expression remained defiant. 

“That’s how I felt about you, Franky,” she said sincerely. “Once.” 

“Then please,” Franky hissed, as her eyes shone with tears. “Please let me use that phone.”

“If you don’t fuck off I’m leaving,” Kim huffed after a second’s thought. She stalked past Franky, out of her cell and out of the unit. 

Fuck, Franky thought. That’s that then, she would have to find another way. Sorry, Gidget.

*

Franky was standing in her cell later that day, going through Iman’s file for more clues and trying to figure out ‘what next’, when she heard Kim’s voice behind her in the open doorway. 

“Franky?”

Franky closed the folder in her hands and turned. She didn’t know if this visit was good or bad, but they were alone and Franky put the folder on her bed as Kim approached her. Kim silently handed Franky the flat, silver phone; the contraband mobile, Franky’s link to Bridget.

“Two minutes,” Kim said as Franky stared at the phone and lifted a hand to take it. She looked Kim in the eyes as her hand closed around the familiar device. “I’ll wait outside.”

Franky grabbed Kim’s right hand with her left before she could leave. She was genuinely shocked and overcome with emotion, she didn’t know what to say. She held Kim tightly and raised their joined hands. This meant so fucking much to her. Franky owed her, big time. 

“Thank you,” she managed. She pressed her lips together and smiled happily at Kim. She was so fucking happy, and even though she loved Bridget, she cared about Kim, she really did. 

“No problem,” Kim said. She looked at their joined hands before she left, as though she was saying goodbye to all of that. Franky didn’t let go of her hand until Kim was out of her cell.

Her heart started racing once she was alone. Franky activated the phone’s screen and typed in Bridget’s own mobile phone number. She didn’t actually know where Bridget was. It was the middle of the afternoon; Bridget could have been at home, at the shops, or in fucking Spain for all Franky knew. What if she didn’t answer? What if Franky had to leave a message?

“Oh, please pick up, please pick up,” she whispered as she listened to Bridget’s phone ring. 

A click, and then-

“Hello?” Bridget sang in a professional, distracted sort of voice. It wasn’t really a question. 

Fuck, Franky had missed that voice. She thought she had forgotten it, but she remembered. She fucking remembered it! Her heart leapt in her chest and her eyes bore through the window of her cell as though Bridget was standing just on the other side, waiting for her. 

“Gidget, it’s me,” she said. Please don’t hang up, please don’t hang up, she thought.

“How did you get through-” Bridget asked after a pause. She didn’t sound mad, that was good and Franky cut her off.

“Hey, I’ll explain later, I’ve only got two minutes.” At that point she gave Bridget the courtesy of deciding whether or not she did want to hang up. Franky wouldn’t blame her if she did, but there was silence on the other end of the line so Franky figured she could keep talking. “Look I know you don’t wanna talk to me? I’m just desperate for your help.”

“Go on,” Bridget said in a soft, serious tone. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah fine. I need to see ya,” Franky said. Her free hand covered her heart as her chest heaved with the weight of each breath. “I wouldn’t ask you unless it was really important.” She took another breath and said, “It’s about my case”.

“Then Franky, you should speak to your lawyer immediately.”

“No, no, it’s you I need.” She paused. “I need your help. Please, Bridget.”

Bridget hesitated as well. It felt like a whole minute before she simply said, “All right”. 

Franky sucked in another breath and shut her eyes to stop the tears there from falling. 

“Are you close?” she asked. 

“I’m in the car park,” Bridget said. She sounded smug, bemused. What timing!

“What?” Franky asked, half-laughing. The Wentworth car park? What the fuck?

“Mm, I had a meeting. Give me half an hour to get myself onto your visitor’s list.”

“Oh fuck, will they let you? I’m going straight there, I promise.” There was a knock on the door and Franky looked over her shoulder to see Kim standing, waiting, hand outstretched. Franky blinked back tears and bit her bottom lip to curtail her wide smile; Kim didn’t need to see it. “I gotta go,” she said. She hung up and handed the phone back to Kim. Franky didn’t want to hear Bridget say goodbye to her again. 

“Well?” Kim asked, as Franky scrubbed at her eyes and checked her face in the dusty mirror. 

“She’s going to come see me. Now,” Franky explained. She looked into Kim’s eyes via their shared reflection, as Kim stood just behind her. “Thank you, Kim. Thank you.”

“Maybe she’s not a slag then, eh?” Kim reasoned. “Or maybe you just fell really fucking hard.”

Franky nodded. She laughed at the fact Kim sounded quite a lot like Bridget, and she watched Kim walk away before tidying her hair. Franky also took her hoodie off and dumped it on her bed because it didn’t sit right on her shoulders and she didn’t want to hide from Bridget. She wanted Bridget to see all of her, all her tatts, especially the brightly coloured, rising phoenix. 

Franky walked straight to the visitor’s room. 

“What are you doing here, Doyle?” one of the screws asked. “You’re not on the list today.”

“Last minute addition,” Franky said, begging them with wide open eyes. “I’m getting a visitor, I swear. I just wanna go in and wait, or else I’ll just keep pacing out here. Please?”

They patted her down but let her pass, and Franky took a seat at an empty, round wooden table. There were other women there seeing partners and families, some of them glanced at her but Franky kept her head down and gave herself the time she needed to calm down. She clasped her hands and polished each short fingernail with her thumbs, she counted to ten that way and thought about what it would be like to see Bridget again. Would she look all right? Was she looking after herself out there? Was she going to refuse to help and walk out again?

Minutes passed, and there was a clock on the wall but Franky was careful not to watch it. The only timepiece she cared about since coming back to Wentworth was the one etched onto her left arm, held in the claws of the bird that soared to freedom in bright blue, green, yellow and red. The hands on that clock never moved, but all that meant was that time might sometimes feel like it stopped, but that wouldn’t stop her. Franky would keep pushing ahead, she had to. 

The door opened and Franky held her breath and looked up. Twice that had happened already, and it was never her, but this time it was. 

Franky exhaled, she smiled and stood up as Bridget was allowed into the visitor’s room. Bridget looked good in her black boots and pants, a black blouse, and her white jacket. She looked fresher in the face, she looked rested and she’d had a haircut, and she was looking right at Franky just as every other woman in the room turned to look at her. They all knew Bridget had resigned, they had heard the rumours about a relationship between Bridget and Franky – rumours Kim helped to start – and here she was, Bridget Westfall, visiting Franky Doyle out in the open like it was fuckin’ Family Day. Word would be all over the prison by lights out, but bitches could stare and talk all they wanted; this was her girl, right there.

“There she is,” Franky whispered as Bridget ambled towards her. 

Franky could scarcely believe it. She bit her bottom lip and waited. Bridget really came back? No one had done that for her except her dad, and it took twenty-five long years for him to walk back into her life. It hadn’t even been two weeks since Bridget said goodbye. She came!

Even better than that, Bridget didn’t look mad at all. Her blue eyes were sparkling, her lips were pressed together in a calm, loving sort of smile as she approached. Any fool could read the looks on their faces as Franky grinned and struggled not to cry or to reach out for her, but she didn’t give a fuck. Bridget had said she would wait forever, maybe that was true after all. 

Franky sat and gestured for Bridget to sit, but she was already on her way. Franky stared at her for one second, two seconds; she wasn’t sure she could make her voice work without crying, and when she did speak it was only a whisper, but it was so fucking sincere and real.

“Thanks for coming.”

Bridget’s smile faded and she looked more measured and serious all of a sudden, and Franky understood the courage it had taken for Bridget to walk back into Wentworth, she really did. 

“I wish I could say no,” Bridget told her. The look in her eyes reminded Franky that Franky herself knew that Bridget couldn’t and wouldn’t have said no to her, so this better be good. 

It was. Franky told her as much with her own eyes, her soft expression, her smile, her tears. Aside from anything else Franky had to ask her, the fact Bridget was there meant so much. Bridget knew that, or at least she seemed to as she relaxed. Franky composed herself then.

“So um, what was it on the phone you couldn’t talk about?” Bridget asked in a quiet voice, like this was a normal chat. She clasped her hands under the round table and leant forwards.

“You remember that new prisoner, Iman?” Franky asked. 

“Mhmm,” Bridget hummed. She wasn’t assuming or rushing, she was prepared to listen, but she would not have to be patient for long because Franky was about to drop the bombshell shocker of a story on her. This would change everything for them, it had to be important. 

“So I’m helping her with some legal advocacy stuff,” Franky said. “And I find out she’s got a social media connection to Mike Pennisi.”

Bridget did a double take. Her eyes went wide and she lifted her eyebrows as Franky stared. 

I am not kidding, she told Bridget with her own eyes before Bridget could ask the question.

“The Mike Pennisi?”

“How is that a coincidence?” Franky asked her in reply. Fuck, she had needed someone to talk to about this. It was doing her fucking head in. 

“That’s a mother of a coincidence,” Bridget agreed. 

Franky laughed softly and nodded. She knew, right? It was insane. It didn’t make any sense.

“Now I know it’s a long shot,” Franky continued, because together they had to find sense in this. “But I reckon it’s worth looking into her background.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said on the phone, Franky, it’s a job for your lawyer.”

Franky ignored that bit. Legal Relief did not have the resources, they were counting on Franky to partially build her own case because they knew she was capable, and they knew she was innocent, and they would fight with her but they couldn’t run investigations for her. 

Bridget wasn’t going to like this next bit but she had come this far; she was so fucking brave.

Franky put her hands in her lap and slid the scrap of paper from the waist of her tracksuit pants. The pockets got patted down, her ass got patted down, but the elastic didn’t shift. Franky now moved quickly, sleekly, she had done this before. She stretched her arms across the table, she clasped her hands over the halfway point between them and leant forward as she spoke. She allowed the edge of the paper to peek out from in front of her fingertips. 

“It’s the name of her therapist,” Franky explained. 

Bridget saw it and collected it with a wary, ‘oh fuck’, look on her face, but Franky had to ask.

“I want you to talk to her. I just wanna know if Iman knew Pennisi, that’s it, no confidential shit.” Franky wasn’t going to get Bridget in trouble, she fucking promised. 

“I don’t know this woman,” Bridget said as she leant in and looked Franky in the eyes. “If I start asking questions about one of her clients she could report me to the psych board.”

“Just explain to her that you’ve got a client in prison for a murder she didn’t commit.”

“If you were a client I wouldn’t be sitting here,” Bridget told her. That was fine, and it was good, actually. Bridget was there personally, and Franky had never felt like a client anyway.

“Please, Gidge,” Franky whispered as tears filled her eyes again and she shook her head. She had not been kidding when she told Bridget she was desperate for her help. “It’s my only lead. It could be the difference between freedom and twenty years in here.” 

What would that mean for us? Franky asked with her eyes. I wanna be free with you, she tried to say. I still wanna come home. 

Bridget watched her closely but she knew Franky was telling the truth and she knew how dangerously serious this was for Franky and their future, if they could even still have one. 

Without warning, Bridget let her guard down. She suddenly let Franky see so fucking much in those beautiful blue eyes that Franky still dreamed about but couldn’t quite remember when she woke. It was like Bridget knew she needed reminding. Bridget’s eyes told Franky that Bridget heard her, she also wanted Franky to be free, she knew Franky was scared – they both were – and then came a playful, light-hearted look that said, ‘I see you, yeah? All of you. I love you, baby’. Bridget was happy that Franky called, she wanted to help. She whispered, “Okay”, and Franky went back to her cell and wept, because Franky had cleared the air with Kim, it was all out in the open now, and most importantly, Bridget came back.


	36. Bridget

Two days later, Bridget returned to Wentworth. Her heart fluttered as she sat in her car and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She worried for the hundredth time that the message would not have gotten to Franky, that no guard would collect her or that something would happen and Franky might not be allowed to see her. She might have already been hurt. 

What Bridget had to tell Franky was important and it had been easy to discover; one email and one phone call twenty-four hours earlier, a friendly chat with another psychologist? It almost felt too easy, given the gravity of the information she now had and what it meant. 

‘Hi Zoe, thanks for getting back to me,’ Bridget had said when Zoe replied to her general email inquiry and said it was fine to contact her. ‘Sorry to contact you out of the blue.’

‘Oh no, it’s fine, Bridget,’ Zoe had said. ‘How can I help you? You said one of your patients has been charged with murder and you wanted my help?’

‘Yes, my patient is Franky Doyle,’ Bridget lied. ‘She’s been charged with the murder of-’

‘Mike Pennisi,’ Zoe said in a quiet voice. Bridget had hesitated. 

‘You know the case?’ she’d asked.

‘I knew Mike,’ Zoe told her. She hesitated as well. ‘Isn’t that why you’re calling?’

‘Well I wasn’t sure,’ Bridget had said calmly. She made notes in a blank notebook as she sat at the dining room table. Zoe didn’t know she wasn’t in her office. ‘Was Mike a patient?’

The answer was yes, and Bridget’s heart thudded painfully as she listened and captured Zoe’s explanation of their relationship in her notes. Fuck. 

‘That’s all I can tell you, I think,’ Zoe said. ‘But I would be willing to speak to lawyers.’

‘No one’s spoken to you yet?’ Bridget asked. ‘Not the police?’

‘No, you’re the first person to call in relation to his death. Mike mentioned Franky Doyle of course; she was the woman who caused his burns and I’m aware she went to jail for that, but I’m afraid I don’t know her, and I don’t know of her involvement with Mike leading to his death. Mike hadn’t attended a session in the last few months. I’m not sure there’s anything I could tell the police that would help, or even Franky’s lawyers, if she uh, if she’s innocent?’

‘I see,’ Bridget said, careful not to say anything that might compromise Franky’s defence. She knew Zoe was fishing. ‘Did Mike ever mention anyone called Iman?’ Bridget asked instead. ‘A woman he might be close to?’

‘Iman?’ Zoe asked. ‘Well, not exactly. I know her, Bridget. We both do, or did.’

Again, Bridget wrote everything down even as Zoe told her a simple, ordinary story. When they were done, Bridget thanked her generously. Zoe had been more than gracious with her time, she had told Bridget more than Bridget would have said if their positions were reversed, and as soon as she hung up the phone Bridget had immediately scheduled a visit with Franky. 

However, she was quickly advised by the prison that she could only see Franky the following day. Bridget had been frustrated but she knew it was late. She had almost notified Vera of her concerns but decided against it. This was information for Franky first; Bridget trusted her.

She could not wait to see her again. 

Bridget took a deep breath and got out of her car to walk into Wentworth. She was dressed more casually than the last time, in lace-up boots, jeans, a white blouse and navy jacket. She walked confidently up to the front desk to sign in. She didn’t even need ID, they knew her. 

“Back again, Bridget,” the older guard at the front desk teased as she signed the ledger. 

“Mm,” she said. “Can I go through?”

“You know the way.” 

Bridget still had to pass through security before she was let into the visitor’s room, but she had walked the same path in and out of that prison for nearly two years, it was no big deal. 

What was a big deal was the fact that Franky was waiting for her. Bridget saw her through the window, she was staring at her hands and fidgeting again. Maybe they hadn’t told her who was visiting and she thought it would be her dad, she still got anxious around him sometimes, or maybe she knew it was Bridget but she just didn’t think Bridget would come.

Franky had spent most of her childhood waiting for her dad to come back to rescue her. Bridget would not put her through the same pain. 

Franky’s sleek, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing her teal hoodie, but at least it looked like she had put it on properly, and it was clean and pressed. There was no more of this walking around with her jumper half-hanging off her shoulder, or at least not that day, not in that moment when Franky thought she had to look neat and respectful for her visitor. A lot of women made an extra effort for visitors, loved ones and lawyers, but Franky did not need to try to impress Bridget like that anymore, Bridget was already impressed. 

She was also keenly aware that Franky had chosen an ill-fitting tracksuit and that was important. It was a public statement that said she did not want to feel too comfortable, and Bridget should never have doubted her focus. She had not been able to think straight herself.

Franky looked up when the door opened and she offered Bridget another broad, lovely smile. Bridget’s stomach flip-flopped when she saw relief flood Franky’s face, her eyes brightened. 

Yes, it’s true, Bridget thought. I’m here. 

Franky stood as Bridget approached. She was so polite; none of Bridget’s past partners had ever stood for her and Bridget never expected them to, but Franky expected it of herself. Whenever they sat down to dinner, if Bridget was bringing the plates to the table Franky stood and waited, and Bridget had started doing that too. She appreciated the gesture. Franky was courteous and she could be charming, she commanded respect and authenticity just as easily as she could be vulnerable and quiet, and Bridget still thought about her every day. She could see that Franky missed her too, in the way Franky was looking at her while they stood.

They sat down at the same time without any words passing between them.

“I could get used to this, seeing you every day,” Franky said happily. She leant over the table.

“I could never get used to it, not after what we had,” Bridget replied honestly, as she smiled and crossed her legs. She was so fucking happy to be there, but it was still bittersweet. 

Franky acknowledged that as she pressed her lips together and smiled, she briefly shut her eyes and then opened them to look directly into Bridget’s with a gentle, apologetic smile. 

“But maybe I won’t have to,” Bridget added in a quiet, playful voice. She teased Franky lovingly with her eyes and promised her a future, but Franky read no more into that than she had to, or perhaps no more than she could, given this search had been on her mind for days.

“What, you found something?” she asked.

“Zoe Taylor ran a group counselling course for people who suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Bridget told her. They could sort out the rest of their shit later. Priorities, Bridget, she told herself. There may be danger here.

“Right,” Franky said, encouraging her to continue. She hung on Bridget’s every word.

“Iman attended that course dealing with war-related refugee trauma, is how Zoe put it.”

“So nothing to do with Pennisi,” Franky quickly declared, as she scrunched up her face and shook her head. She was confused and disappointed.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait,” Bridget whispered to keep her calm. There was more. “Pennisi attended the same sessions for burns trauma.”

Franky’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide as Bridget spoke. She leant in and then she sat back and crossed her arms in her chair.

“Holy shit!” she hissed.

“Mm,” Bridget hummed. “They both attended for a period of about eighteen months.”

“Oh, they knew each other all right,” Franky reasoned. Bridget pressed her lips together and lifted her head in silent agreement. Franky nodded, her eyes were bright as she looked at Bridget and then told her something that Bridget already suspected. “Iman lied to me.”

Franky did not look surprised, she had suspected it too, obviously. Franky looked pleased to have caught her out, but pleasure was the furthest thing from Bridget’s mind.

“Mhmm,” she hummed quickly, hoping to hide her fear. She watched Franky’s mind spin. 

“Were they on together?” Franky asked her in a quiet voice as she leant in. “Do you know?”

“I didn’t ask,” Bridget said. “Zoe was very good to give me the information she did and I didn’t want to push it, Franky.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that,” Franky said. She sat back and held her jaw in her hand. “Fuck.”

“What’s going on in here with this woman?” Bridget asked. “Has she threatened you?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” Franky said. She shook her head hurriedly. Bridget narrowed her eyes and silently asked for details, and Franky continued, “I asked her how she knew him, cos I thought it was a weird coincidence him talking to her on social media and all that, and she denied it. That’s all.” Franky’s eyes went wide as she processed this news. “If they were on together though, she could know the killer, or a motive; something the cops don’t know or that I haven’t been able to imagine.”

“Maybe,” Bridget told her. Her voice shook. “Franky, be careful. This is not a game.”

Franky pouted and immediately softened. 

“I know that,” she whispered. She reached her hands across the table again and lifted her fingers in a silent invitation. Bridget slid her hands forward and Franky quickly clasped them.

“Someone’s gonna see this,” Bridget whispered urgently, though she could not pull away. 

Franky smiled kindly and shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. 

“I don’t give a shit,” she said. She took a deep breath and smiled. “I told Kimmy about ya, I told her I loved ya, she understands. And they all know you came to see me the other day.”

“Is that how you got the phone?” Bridget asked with a wise smirk, as she wrapped her thumbs around Franky’s fingers with greater confidence. “From Kim Chang?”

“Well yeah, but that’s not why I told her how I felt,” Franky said. She grinned and bit her bottom lip. “Tell me about your meeting the other day. What were you doin’ here?”

“I had to meet with Channing,” Bridget whispered. 

“Anything I should know?” Franky asked as her eyes searched Bridget’s for an answer. 

“Oh, just the usual, concerns about drugs in the prison,” Bridget said with a wry smirk. “Nothing that affects you, right?”

“Nuh,” Franky said with a proud smile. “No fuckin’ way, Gidge.”

“Good girl,” Bridget whispered with an equally proud smile. She was happy to share that pride, and Franky beamed at her. “So, you doing okay?” Bridget quipped with a raised brow.

“Yeah,” Franky said. She let go of Bridget’s hands but flattened them on the table either side of where Bridget then joined her own hands together. “You?”

“Yeah,” Bridget assured her with a calm smile. Franky challenged her with a serious look, so Bridget teased Franky with her eyes and the gentle way she then sang, “I’m on holidays”.

Franky laughed and playfully shrugged in agreement. She supposed that was true. 

“So you can visit me heaps, then,” Franky said with a hopeful, smug smirk. “Happy days.”

“That depends,” Bridget said. She leant forward and pegged Franky with a knowing stare. “On whether or not you plan on being here.”

Franky stared at her warily. 

“I know you’re desperate and you’re looking for a way out,” Bridget said. She laughed at herself and rolled her eyes. “Trust me, I’ve felt it, I feel that same impulse, Franky, but use your brain. This is life. You need to sit tight and tell your lawyer this news, wait it out.”

“Yeah, yeah I will,” Franky assured her. She nodded fiercely. “I’ll call Fessler after this.” She paled slightly, and Bridget briefly squeezed her hands because she thought she knew why. “Gidge,” Franky whispered slowly. “What if Iman killed him? And got herself put inside to come after me? What if this whole social media thing; what if I was meant to find his name?”

“That would be one helluva plan,” Bridget said. “Importantly, the social media interactions you found were genuine. Pennisi could have told Iman all about you, Franky. Certainly, in group sessions these things come out, he would have spoken about his life experiences.”

“My necklace was stolen,” Franky said suddenly as she frowned. “My kite.”

“What?” Bridget asked. “You didn’t surrender it?” She knew that was a stupid question as soon as Franky looked her in the eyes and told her as much. “It was in the cell with you?”

“Yeah. I moved it around a bit but then it wasn’t where I left it. No one knew I had it except Allie and, and maybe Iman, if she saw me with it. If she took it she’s either klepto or Mike told her about it. He told someone because of the card I got sent with the picture of the kite with the red tail, but I dunno, it’s too weird. Is it a trophy? Does it mean something to her?” 

Franky scrunched up her nose and shook her head as she drifted into silence. She was struggling to pinpoint the truth. She chewed on her lip again and shuffled around in her chair. 

“Augh,” she said eventually. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.” She looked at Bridget and pouted. “Get me the fuck outta here, Gidge? Please? I just wanna go home with ya.”

“I’m sorry, Franky,” Bridget whispered. Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t.”

Franky shut her eyes as a tear trickled down her own cheek and she nodded. She knew that. 

“Did you mean what you said before?” Franky asked when she opened her eyes and swiped at her cheek. “About us not having to get used to this?”

“I’m not busting you out, Franky,” Bridget said with a coy smirk, to try to cheer her up. 

Franky chuckled and rolled her eyes. 

“Narr, y’dag! You know what I mean.” She levelled Bridget with an earnest stare. 

“Yeah, I meant it,” Bridget assured her softly. “Did you mean what you said, in my office?”

It’s not over, she recalled. We’re not done. I fucking love you. 

“Yeah, but I won’t force you,” Franky said. She smiled and shook her head. “How can I? Look at me, Gidge, look at what I’m wearing, I’ve got nothing to offer you. I just want you to be happy and safe, and all those good things are out there, I know you can’t be like that here. I want you to know I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away and I never saw ya again.”

Bridget smiled sadly and shook her head, before she repeated something she had said before. 

“I wish that I could.” She cocked her head to one side as Franky huffed with relief, but Bridget was not done. She would not allow Franky to fear absence in the face of wishing otherwise. “And at the same time,” she added kindly. “I wouldn’t want to change a thing.”

“Good, don’t leave me,” Franky whispered as she looked into Bridget’s eyes across the table.

Bridget leant forwards and let a tear dribble down her own cheek as she smiled confidently. 

“Darling, I never could,” she whispered. 

“I’m sorry about what happened in my cell,” Franky mumbled. “I disrespected you, and me and us, in so many fucked up ways. I’m sorry I hurt you, Bridget.” The words just seemed to tumble out of her, as though she had been holding them in for weeks; of course she had been. 

Bridget only nodded, she was sorry about that too.

“I promise,” Franky said as she looked into Bridget’s eyes. “Next time I unbutton your shirt, if you let me, I’m gonna do it properly-” She paused, performed an eyebrow wiggle and managed a coy smile. “With my tongue.”

Bridget's laughter was sudden and full of warmth, it took her by surprise as Franky grinned and poked her strong, pink tongue out from between her lips. Franky laughed through her teeth and it was a genuine, loving, belly-laugh. Fuck, Bridget adored her, she couldn’t help it. 

The women and visitors stared at Franky and Bridget laughing so freely with each other, and the guards were surely watching their every move as though their mirth was a distraction or fabrication. But it was real, and if Franky didn’t mind that this was where they found each other then Bridget had no right to care. She didn’t work there anymore, this was her own life now, being there with Franky in that visitor’s room was her choice and she was allowed to laugh.

But she could not sit there forever, and Franky had shit to do, like calling Imogen, asap.

“I should go,” Bridget said when they calmed down. 

Franky pressed her lips together in a grateful smile and nodded. 

“I’ll miss ya,” Franky said. 

She seemed to think she wouldn’t see Bridget for a while, and maybe that was true. Bridget didn’t know what she wanted yet, she wasn’t really sure what she could cope with in terms of visits and organising the rest of her life. She was hopeful that if the police could be convinced to look into Iman, then the charges against Franky could be dropped in the near future, or at the very least, Iman could be presented to the jury as a viable alternative; reasonable doubt. 

Bridget just wanted her to come home, that hadn’t changed.

“I hope this helps you,” Bridget said softly. 

“Oh Gidge,” Franky huffed. She pouted and nodded. “It helps. You’re a fuckin’ legend.”

Bridget smiled and shook her head. She really wasn’t. She was probably still a bit of a fool.

“You know how I feel?” Franky asked her. She bit her bottom lip and sought out Bridget’s eyes, as Bridget looked at her surely and nodded. 

“Yeah, I do,” Bridget promised her. “Same?” she asked.

Franky scoffed, she grinned and nodded. Good, Bridget thought, they were on the same page.

Franky stretched her hands out across the table again, with her palms raised and her fingers gently curled. Bridget could not leave her like that. She locked her fingers over the tops of Franky’s and buried the knuckles of her fingers into the warmth of Franky’s palms. 

Franky squeezed the backs of Bridget’s fingers so hard that even her short fingernails dug into Bridget’s skin. She brushed her thumbs firmly and hurriedly over Bridget’s top knuckles. Franky took a deep breath; she was psyching herself up to have to let go and she was scared. 

“Hold tight, baby,” Bridget whispered. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah, you too,” Franky said. “Thank you, Gidget, for all your hope, for everything.” 

“I gotta go, and you need to cut your nails.” 

Franky laughed. She let go of Bridget’s hands and smacked her palms happily into the table as they grinned at each other. Bridget stood and walked away. She forced herself not to look back, even as someone wolf-whistled and she heard Franky call out, “Shut the fuck up!”

“Doyle,” one of the guards warned her. 

Bridget did look back once she was in the hall, on the other side of the window. Franky had stopped at the opposite exit with her hand resting on the door. She had hesitated and looked over her shoulder. She found Bridget’s eyes quickly, and they shared a gentle, parting smile. 

They weren’t done.


	37. Franky

Franky stood in Iman’s cell and flipped through a useless book until she zeroed in on the curtains at the window. They were a great place to hide jewellery, and she should know. Just how dumb was this bitch, to steal her necklace and then hide it in the same place she had stolen it from? Franky went to the right curtain and ran her fingers along the seam. She knew what the kite felt like, and her stomach turned when she felt it and was able to pull it out. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. 

Iman was playing her? What the fuck was she doing?

“What are you doing in my cell?” Iman asked from behind her. Franky spun around.

“You stole this from me,” Franky said as she clutched the necklace in her right hand. “And you lied to me about Pennisi, you did know him.”

“Yeah, I knew him,” Iman said. She was calm, and in a way she looked angry but Franky was more angry. She was fucking fuming!

“So stop fucking lying to me and tell me what you knew about him!” she demanded. 

She waited, alert, and she saw the attack coming just in time. The shiv was in Iman’s right hand, Iman reared back ready to strike with it and Franky gasped as she leant backwards. What, had it been in her pocket the whole fucking time? It didn’t touch her. 

Iman tried again and again Franky ducked, yet Iman had moved forward and on her third attempt Franky grabbed her right hand and attempted overpower her. She pushed Iman back against the wall, half-onto her empty desk. They shouted as they struggled, and Franky used all of the power in her left arm to slam Iman’s right arm and wrist into the cold, hard bricks. 

She had to make her let go of that shiv. Franky had barely seen it in her periphery, but she guessed a toothbrush and a razor blade because that was what most women used. It couldn’t pierce her heart but it could still kill her; a vein or artery in her throat or the top of her thigh.

Iman held tightly to the shiv as Franky tried to hold her, but she was not as strong as she had been when she was Top Dog, and her left arm was her non-dominant arm, her left hand was not as strong as her right. Fuck! She felt her fingers shaking in the half a second before Iman covered Franky’s face with her left hand and used that leverage to push her away. 

Franky tripped backwards onto Iman’s bed and Iman climbed on top of her. Franky knew that was not the position she needed to be in. She cried out as she attempted to hold both Iman and her shiv away from her own face and neck. She didn’t want to be cut. She would not die. 

“You took him away from me,” Iman said as she looked fiercely, desperately into Franky’s eyes. “The only good thing I ever had!” 

Franky held Iman off of her but she was effectively holding up Iman’s bodyweight as Iman bore down upon her. It was hard. Franky wasn’t sure she could keep it up, in fact she knew that she couldn’t. She had to act, now. She summoned every bit of strength in her torso to push Iman off of the bed and back across the cell, so she could sit, stand, and save her life.

She got to Iman before Iman had the chance to strike again. Iman still hadn’t dropped the shiv, and Franky pushed her up against the wall by the open cell door with her right hand around her throat and her left hand around her wrist. 

“What are you talking about?” she screamed in Iman’s face. Had she been right? Had they been fucking? Franky had to know. 

“When he couldn’t find work, when he couldn’t leave his house,” Iman said. 

Franky cut her off, she didn’t care about that bit. 

“You were his girlfriend?” she asked, still unable to believe it was true. What the fuck was she doing inside Wentworth? How the fuck had she arranged it so quickly? Had she really bashed some random chick she met online just to get to Franky? Did they plan it together? 

“He was obsessed with you!” Iman shouted. “Even had a shrine to you all over the wall.”

Thank fuck, Franky thought. If she could subdue this bitch, Iman could tell the cops that too.

Iman began to struggle in Franky’s grasp and she pushed her away. Again, Franky couldn’t hold her, not with her arms raised like that, draining blood and cramping under the strain. She backed away from Iman into the cell as Iman blocked her only exit. 

Iman tried to strike with the shiv again, and again. She cornered Franky back on the bed.

“You destroyed us,” she said with wide, seething eyes as she climbed on top of her. “Mike is dead because of you.” 

“I didn’t kill Mike,” Franky insisted firmly, with wide eyes of her own. That was the truth. 

“No,” Iman agreed too quickly. “I did,” she whispered. She drew strength from that confession as Franky’s eyes turned towards the shiv that was nearing her neck. Franky screamed and so did Iman, they continued to struggle but Iman was stronger. 

Franky felt the shiv prick her neck, she felt her skin tear, she had been cut by razors before. 

“Don’t do this!” she begged as fiercely and genuinely as she could. Her heart was racing. 

“It’s the only reason I’m here,” Iman told her. She sounded genuine also, but that really did mean she badly hurt someone just to go to jail to kill Franky. Franky thought that was fucked! 

She screamed in a low, desperate wail, an attempt to summon what little strength she had left to get herself out of this situation. If she could get to it, she would push the panic button in a heartbeat. The old rules of Wentworth did not apply to her anymore, she would save herself.

Iman’s scream coincided with Franky’s release. Franky’s mouth dropped open and she felt the wind knocked out of her when she saw a black glove looming in front of Iman’s face. 

Ferguson still had her gloves, Franky thought as she stared wide-eyed at her sudden rescuer. The Top Dog. No fuckin’ way. 

Ferguson covered Iman’s face and dragged her off Franky. Franky scrambled off the bed and moved towards the door, she could run if she had to, but she was mesmerised by Ferguson’s complete physical domination of the woman Franky had barely been able to fight off. Fuck. 

Ferguson had Iman in some kind of painful lock in front of her, because Iman was withering around the Freak’s left arm. Ferguson held Iman’s right wrist and as she raised her arm she forced her wrist inwards. Iman was still holding that fucking shiv, and this was a clear attempt to force her to drop it. Either that, or Ferguson would just keep going until she broke Iman’s arm. Franky knew she would tear it off if she could. There was no way Franky could ever fight her and win, not alone. All those people telling her to take Ferguson on, to take her down, they were fucking kidding themselves. Franky was a mouse compared to this monster. 

Iman dropped the shiv before her wrist snapped.

Thank you, Franky thought immediately, instinctively. She was safe. Fucking thank you!

“It was her,” she said. She had to tell someone, she had to tell everyone! “She killed Pennisi.”

“So I heard,” Ferguson said. “She could tell them it wasn’t you.”

I’m free, Franky thought as she grinned and nodded. The cops would have to let her go immediately. She could go home, she could have dinner with Bridget, or she could surprise her the next morning with breakfast and hot coffee. Neither of them would ever have to go back to Wentworth, and they could have a life together. Thank you, she thought. Thank you!

“But she won’t be telling them anything,” Ferguson said, long before Franky had the chance to remember who this Top Dog was. She wasn’t the same as Franky or Bea, or Kaz or Jacs. She didn’t give a shit about justice outside of her own warped, egocentric view of the world.

She took Iman by the jaw and broke her neck. Iman died on her feet, it was instant, and she dropped to the floor. Franky only had time to reflexively lift her hands in a mixture of self-defence and surrender. She struggled to breathe as Ferguson stood tall and stared in triumph.

They both looked at the body. Iman was slumped against her bed. Tears filled Franky’s eyes as she gulped in air. She looked back to Ferguson, whose dark eyes were pits of nothing. A smile tugged at Ferguson’s lips, however, and it filled Franky with rage. The Freak hated her that much? Fucking yes, and she had just stolen much more from Franky than a necklace. 

Ferguson took off her gloves and walked out of the cell. The panic button blared, the prison went into lockdown, and Franky froze. She wanted to approach Iman and check for a pulse, she still wanted to try to help this angry woman. Franky couldn’t believe she was really dead. 

Guards came, everyone came. They took Ferguson away and she went gladly, gloating and proclaiming that Doyle just ‘snapped’; an intentional pun, for sure. Franky was escorted to the medical unit where the nurse doused her in disinfectant and put a stitch across her neck.

“Franky,” Vera said as she rushed into the room. Her eyes were wide and panicked. “What-”

“Ferguson,” Franky said as she looked directly into Vera’s eyes. She didn’t care that the nurse was listening. “Ferguson killed Iman. I wanna call Bridget. I have to speak to her.”

“I think you should call your lawyer,” Vera said. “The police have been notified and they’re on their way. They’ll be here any minute and they will want to speak with you.”

“No,” Franky said as her voice broke and she began to panic. Her heart sped up, she started sweating. Shit, it wasn’t the time! “No, I didn’t do it, Vera. You have to believe me. You know me, you know me now. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t! She was there, she was fucking there!”

Vera stared at her and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. She nodded, just once. 

“I need to tell Bridget,” Franky said. She sniffled and sobbed, and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Please, Vera. I’ll pull myself together to speak to her but I only just saw her and she’s gonna blame herself and I need to make sure she knows it wasn’t us.”

“Can you excuse us for a second?” Vera asked the nurse. The nurse pressed her lips together and left. Vera stepped towards Franky and Franky looked her in the eyes. “Swear to me,” Vera said. 

“I swear,” Franky whispered as her wet eyes searched Vera’s face in earnest. “I didn’t.”

“Here,” Vera said. She withdrew a mobile phone from the pocket of her pants. Franky sobbed gratefully when she saw it. “Her number’s saved, so you don’t have to remember it.”

Franky laughed even as she cried, because that was good thinking by Vera; Franky wasn’t sure she remembered much of anything other than the sound of Iman’s neck breaking in two.

“Vera, hi,” Bridget answered on the second ring. “Hang on, I’m just in the car. I’ll pull over.”

“I’m so sorry,” Franky wept into the phone before she could plan any of what was about to come tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t do it, I’m so fucking sorry, I love you-”

“Franky?” Bridget asked urgently. “Franky, is that you? Where’s Vera? Where is she?”

“She’s right here,” Franky said as she took a deep, shaking breath and tried to pull herself together. “It’s okay, she’s okay, I’m okay. You um, you stop somewhere safe, okay?”

“I’ve pulled over,” Bridget said. “What’s happened, Franky? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Iman’s dead,” Franky sobbed. “She stole the necklace, I found it and she attacked me. She killed Pennisi, Bridget; I was right, she fucking killed him! Ferguson pulled her off me before Iman could shiv me, but she um…Ferguson, she heard everything. She heard her confess to Pennisi’s murder but she killed her. She just…she killed Iman right in front of me, fuck!”

“Are you hurt?” Bridget asked. Franky wept into her shaking hand and nodded. She wasn’t badly hurt, but she felt deeply hurt. Her heart was breaking all over again. She wanted to go home, she wanted Bridget. 

“A stitch in my neck where she cut me, but I think I’m in shock and I’m in trouble, Gidge. Can you call Imogen? Call her right away and tell her to come here? Ferguson’s saying I did it and the cops are coming, they’re not going to believe me, they never fucking believe me! I don’t want to talk to them before I talk to her, I’m not going to say anything ‘til I see her.”

“Ferguson says you killed Iman?”

“Yes, and everyone’s going to believe her because she’s the Freak, she was wearing her black gloves, there’s no proof she was ever in that cell with us. It’s my word against hers.”

“Franky-”

“Don’t you dare say my word’s worth more, Gidge,” Franky huffed as tears dribbled onto her cheeks. “You know it’s not, not where the cops are concerned. She’s misunderstood and I’m fucked! I’m gonna get arrested, I don’t know how to fight this. I’m not strong enough now.”

“Shh,” Bridget hushed. Franky felt sick when she heard Bridget’s gentle voice shaking as she continued to hush her for several minutes, until Franky was able to take deep breaths and dry her face. “Shh, you’re okay, you’ll be okay. You are strong, Franky. You are so strong.”

It was what Franky wanted to hear but she still found herself shaking her head in shame.

“I fucked up,” she said. “I went straight to her cell to look for my kite, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Maybe not,” Bridget conceded. “But you can start thinking now, and remember, she might have tried this anywhere. I’m going to hang up and call Imogen. Don’t worry, she’ll be there. Do not say one word to those detectives until you speak to your lawyer, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Franky mumbled. 

“You’ll sort this out,” Bridget said. “Just tell the truth. Don’t hide anything like last time.”

“I promise,” Franky said on a deep, thoughtful breath. “I’ll tell them everything if Imogen agrees it’s the best thing to do. I’m sorry for calling you like this, I’m sorry for worrying you. I just wanted to hear your voice, that was really close and I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“All I care about is you, Franky,” Bridget assured her in a trembling, emotional voice.

“Yeah well I’m okay, honest,” Franky promised her as her heart ached. She nodded fiercely, stubbornly. She glanced at Vera and managed a smile. “Vera’s glaring at me,” she said to Bridget. “So uh, I gotta go. I dunno when I’ll get to talk to you again. I still fucking love ya.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bridget said. She hung up first. It was better than goodbye. 

Franky handed the phone back to Vera, who smiled sadly at her. She was handed a tissue.

“Thank you,” Franky said. Finally, she thought, thanks directed at the right kind of person. She could not believe she had been so stupid, so hopeful! Ferguson did not deserve thanks. 

“How is Bridget involved in this?” Vera asked. “Why did you say she would blame herself?”

“She found out the connection between Iman and Pennisi for me. She told me today.”

“I see,” Vera said as she pursed her lips. Franky looked at her, but didn’t ask her to once again take care of Bridget. That should have been Franky’s job and they both knew it, but equally it was Vera’s job and Franky didn’t doubt that they were still regularly in touch.

“Thank you,” Franky said again, as sincerely and gently as she could. “Sorry for making a mess of everything. I’m a fucking mess, Vera. I don’t know how this happened”

“You’re in shock,” Vera told her matter-of-factly. “And I don’t blame you,” she added. “I think you should sit here in medical and rest until your lawyer arrives. The detectives can inspect the cell and take a statement from Ferguson. You have time, you take it.”

Franky looked her in the eyes and nodded. She managed a watery smile as Vera left. 

*

That sense of calm Franky felt as she lay in medical and stared at the ceiling did not last long. Imogen arrived in a flurry but she listened to everything Franky had to say, and Franky knew that Imogen believed her. Imogen could scarcely believe the facts, but she believed Franky.

Then Franky repeated it all to the detectives, who were smug and patronising and they acted like just because she was in prison she was automatically a killer. That wasn’t true. A lot of the women at Wentworth were not killers, not in the sense of standing behind a person and breaking their neck. If the cops knew anything about Franky they would know that she also was not that person, she had thrown hot oil onto Mike Pennisi in a moment of anger, that was all she had done, but they didn’t know her. They obviously thought she had killed him and now she had apparently bumped off his girlfriend, a girlfriend they didn’t even know about until Franky told them, but all of a sudden Iman was a potential witness for the prosecution? 

Murder. Franky was charged with murder, again. 

How was it that a couple of months earlier she had been living a normal, happy life? How was it even possible to be charged for two separate murders, neither of which she committed?

What the fuck did that say about the criminal justice system? It was fucked!

*

Franky lost it as she was walked to her cell. She was devastated and angry, she was hurt!

No, fuck this, she thought as she plodded along. Screw you guys, I’m going home. 

Franky turned and ran. The women who were watching shouted and cheered, and for a brief minute Franky felt free, but she screamed with all of the frustration that scratched her soul as she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a locked door. Two burly male screws grabbed her as she slammed her palms forcefully into the thick glass. It shook, she was shaking too. She was forced to her feet as her knees buckled and she writhed in their grip. 

“Slot her,” Jake said as he watched. The decision was for his benefit, not hers. A crowd had gathered around them. Lockdown had been lifted, everyone knew that a prisoner had been killed. The women had all surely hoped it was the Freak, Franky was sorry that it wasn’t. 

Franky protested her innocence and she called out Ferguson’s name to accuse her as she was dragged to the Slot. Her cries echoed throughout the dark concrete halls. 

Franky knew Ferguson could hear her and she was probably deliriously happy but Franky did not give a fuck. If Franky was convicted she was coming for the bitch. Best to warn her.

Ferguson wanted her to stick around too, that was all part of the game, Franky realised as she screamed like a trapped, wounded animal. That was why Iman had died, that was only why. 

Franky felt hunted. She had been hunted by Pennisi, by Iman, by the Freak? What the fuck? How had that happened to her? She was a good person! She didn’t deserve to be punished!

“She’s a Freak!” Franky screamed as she stood in the Slot. She raged at the security cameras, she was sure Jake was watching. As Deputy Governor he was Vera’s right hand man, but Franky didn’t buy his pretty-boy sturdiness. She had watched stronger men wither under Ferguson’s control. Ferguson was being helped by people on the inside, and Jake was weak.

Franky spread her arms and fiercely roared at the cameras with an open mouth; a deep and primal scream to release her anger so it didn’t consume her. Yet Franky would not be saddled with this. She refused to rot in jail for the rest of her natural life for two murders she did not commit. She would prove her innocence, or she would escape. There were no other options. 

*

Vera came to her late that night, and unlike when Governor Ferguson had entered the Slot, Franky knew it was very unlikely that she would be beaten and doused in metho like Jodie.

Franky watched calmly as Vera joined her on the floor. Vera rested her back against the wall.

“Shit day?” Franky asked in jest. 

Vera scoffed. She raised her knees and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Can you tell me anything?” Franky asked. 

“Bridget knows.”

“Fuck,” Franky said. She wept and sucked in an urgent, choked breath. She had been trying not to think about it, but she could imagine Bridget crying in their home. Bridget needed to be resting, she needed to not be stressing out over Franky all the time, she’d made that clear.

“It’s okay,” Vera said softly. “She asked me to give you a message.”

They looked at each other as they sat side-by-side against the wall. Silently, Vera put her hand over Franky’s and dropped the necklace into her palm. Her silver kite. She found it.


	38. Bridget

“Come on in, Bridget,” Imogen said as she walked past Bridget, who was sitting in the waiting area at Legal Relief. 

Bridget smiled at her and stood, but Imogen was already past her. She was trudging ahead to her office, draped in a thick red and black coat, with her curly, greying black hair out and flowing over her shoulders and back. Imogen was a proud Indigenous woman, a successful lawyer who commanded respect with a lot of straight talking and good humour. She looked disadvantaged clients in the eyes, she was prepared to respect and trust them, and challenge them. She took a chance on them, and Franky could not have found a more suitable mentor. 

“I appreciate you seeing me this afternoon,” Bridget said as she entered Imogen’s office and took a seat. It was an attempt to thank her for more than that, and Imogen smiled sadly as she shut the door and took her seat behind the desk. She then leant back into her chair and sighed. 

“I just came from the prison,” she said. “They won’t let me see her.” She rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath, something along the lines of, “fuckin’ Wentworth”. 

Bridget smirked, she knew that feeling.

“Was there an explanation?” she asked as she crossed her legs and raised her brow. 

“I wasn’t leaving without one, believe me,” Imogen assured her with a fierce look in her eyes. “When they told me Franky was ‘unavailable’, I demanded to see the Governor, and when they told me she was busy I sat and glared at them. I almost called you for Vera’s number but eventually this bloke on the desk got on the phone and the Deputy Governor ambled down with that look on his face people get when they don’t wanna talk to lawyers.”

“Ah, Jake,” Bridget said. 

“He’s a bit of a pretty fella, eh?” Imogen asked with a smirk. “Bet the women love him.”

“So they tell me,” Bridget replied. Imogen chuckled and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “What did he say?” Bridget asked her. “Is Franky all right?”

There were only two reasons why a prisoner would be made unavailable to speak to their lawyer; if they were in the Slot, or if they were unconscious in Medical.

“The story is that after she was charged she flipped out and tried to make a break for it.”

Bridget’s eyebrows shot up into her forehead and she sat up straight. Imogen chuckled at her. 

“Not an actual break for it,” she assured Bridget. “She was in the middle of the prison, she ran right into one of those doors you probably need a staff pass to get through. Apparently she was causing a fuss, screaming that she was innocent and resisting an escort back to her cell. ‘Franky put on quite a performance and was disturbing the prison, she murdered an inmate and was a danger to the other women,’ that’s how Jake put it.”

“It sounds more like she was having a panic attack,” Bridget said, as her own heart raced at the thought that Franky could escape. She would be hunted and killed, surely, and she had to know that! Yet Jake’s explanation being passed on by Imogen sounded different to Franky’s more considered escape plans, or even the way she had performed in the prison dining room weeks earlier. Bridget still remembered the joyous cry of, ‘Shit! Shit!’ Now that was what Bridget called a performance, dammit, not a traumatised woman protesting her innocence! Bridget crossed her arms tightly over her aching chest. “Was Franky sedated?” Bridget asked.

“No,” Imogen said. “No medical treatment. She’s in Solitary, has been for a couple of days.”

“Fuck,” Bridget said under her breath. She sighed. “I haven’t been hassling Vera or trying to call. I thought if I gave them some time they might come to realise how preposterous this is.”

“Mm,” Imogen said. “I wasn’t happy to hear it. I asked how she was doing in there and if there was any reason she should still be prevented from having a conversation with me. He said it wasn’t ‘policy’, which is bullshit. When I insisted I see my client, he said they had safety concerns; sometimes Franky’s raging at the camera about how she didn’t do it, and other times she’s sitting quietly…or crying, he said. You know this prison, you how it can be, Bridget. He said she was too volatile to see me, and I don’t know how true that is. Sorry.”

“Yep,” Bridget said. Her voice cracked as tears flooded her eyes and she quickly swiped at them. Fuck, just the mention of Franky crying in the Slot was enough to set her off. 

“To be honest the only reason I’m not still there waiting to see her is because I trust Franky when she tells me that the Governor has her back, that she’s friends with you. Is that true?”

“Vera has her limits,” Bridget said. “Her trust in Franky is still new, and she’s known Franky as an inmate for many more years than the months she’s known her as my uh, my partner and as herself. Any kindness Vera shows to Franky is in part because of her loyalty to me, yes.”

“That’s fine,” Imogen said. “I asked if she was being allowed showers, if she was being fed, and Jake said yep, all that is covered. Again, I don’t know how much of is true or how often it’s happening, but I’m gonna call every day to check on her welfare until I can speak to her.”

“Thank you,” Bridget said softly. She sighed and briefly lifted her eyes skywards. “And the rest? Franky wouldn’t even know how to break someone’s neck, not in a practical sense.”

“Augh, fuckin’ cops,” Imogen huffed. “I see it all the time, Bridget. They settle on the easy option and don’t look any further. A lot of the time they end up right but not always. I’m still waiting on a copy of the autopsy and that will give us more information on exactly what happened to Iman. Rest assured, I believe Franky. Unfortunately, knowing Franky as I do, I reckon if both of these murder charges are brought to trial she’s going to plead not guilty.”

“Shouldn’t she?” Bridget asked. 

“It means convincing two juries on two separate charges that there’s reasonable doubt. I’m not saying we can’t do it, and I’m not saying I won’t – I absolutely bloody will – but if the cops look at Franky and see a mad woman, there will be people in the jury who do as well.”

“She is not mad,” Bridget said with force and wisdom. “She is kind and loyal, Imogen.”

“I know that,” Imogen said softly, with a quiet smile. “I’ve got her back, Bridget. I’ve got a pretty busy week coming up but I will speak to her, I assure you. Jake couldn’t tell me when she would be out of Solitary but my goodness it feels like there’s some shit going down at that prison. It’s good you got out.” She hesitated, then added, “Franky told me you’d quit”.

“I wasn’t coping with both of us there,” Bridget admitted. She offered Imogen a bashful grimace of a smile, but Imogen nodded with brown eyes that were full of understanding. “I’m okay now,” Bridget said. “Unemployed, but I feel calmer, more settled. That’s important.”

“That’s good, you need to look after yourself, cos we’re in it for the long haul here. And it’s important to Franky as well,” Imogen said. “You’re important to her. All any of us can do right now is to focus on doing our best work. I want Franky back working here just as surely as you want her home, and I was very impressed with the way she handled herself with the police the other day. We sat down together before the interview, she told me every detail of what happened with Iman and Ferguson, she repeated it to the cops and she was calm and as patient as could be expected with them; it’s not her fault they chose to sneer and not listen.”

“Thank you,” Bridget repeated. She was so pleased that Franky had taken her advice to be honest about what might have happened, and Bridget still was not even clear on all the details, but her knowing the details didn’t matter the way it mattered for Imogen and Franky’s legal defence. “Franky wants to prove her innocence,” Bridget assured her. “She is desperate for people to believe her, and I am sure she will perform well in court if she has to.”

Bridget could not even fathom it; sitting in a courtroom one or two rows back from the front, watching Franky’s trials unfold – both of them – while Franky sat and struggled to appear both earnest and strong. When she testified, she would need to be honest but not defensive, she could not allow the prosecutors to anger her, and they could do that so easily by mixing up the facts or taking parts of her statement out of context. Without any other evidence it would be difficult to prove to a jury that Iman had killed Mike Pennisi, and that Ferguson had killed Iman for no other reason than to fuck with Franky, to steal her best chance at freedom.

Of course there was the psychologist, Zoe Taylor, who could speak to the relationship between Mike and Iman, and Bridget risked her professional registration by telling Imogen just enough to set her on that same path of discovery before she left. The common thread between these people was trauma, she said. Maybe that was worth looking into. 

No doubt when Franky had the chance to speak to Imogen, she could fill in the rest. 

*

Bridget was making dinner several nights later when the phone rang. She answered the phone with one hand while with one hand she shook a small container of olive oil, lemon juice, sugar and herbs, because she had time for shit like that now.

“Hello?”

“Gidget, it’s me,” Franky hissed. “I can’t talk long, I just wanted to call to say don’t visit.” 

“Franky,” Bridget said. She put her salad dressing down and leant over the bench. Tears sprang to her eyes and she covered her broad grin with one hand. “You’re all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Franky said in a softer tone. “It’s all good, I’m back in General and it’s fine.”

“Imogen-”

“Yeah I know, she’s been trying to see me,” Franky said. “I was in the Slot for fuckin’ forever, Gidge, locked up like a killer for a week with the Freak fuckin’ free; it’s just not right. But look, I told Imogen to give me a few days before she comes by, it’s not urgent and shit’s going down here, and I don’t want you coming by for a visit either, okay? Please.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Just…politics,” Franky said. “Kaz and Ferguson, you know? I wanna keep my head down.”

“Good,” Bridget said as she nodded. “Good, Franky, you keep your head down and if there’s any shit that’s about to go down, you stay right out of it.”

“Yeah, I’ll try,” Franky said. “I don’t wanna get involved in any conflict, but you know it’s not as simple as that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bridget also assured her gently. “Please look after yourself, that’s all.”

“I promise I don’t wanna fight anyone, let alone the fuckin’ Freak,” Franky whispered. “How are you? You okay? I’m so fucking sorry for that phone call, Gidge, I barely remember any of it but I know I was bawling. I’m so fuckin’ embarrassed that Vera was right there the whole time too, staring at me having a good panic on the phone to ya, I’m sorry I upset ya.” 

“No, no, shh,” Bridget insisted. Her heart was racing and she sucked in a deep breath. “I’m glad you called me,” she said. “I’m really fucking glad, Franky. Thank you for letting me in, and don’t worry about Vera; it doesn’t matter what she thinks about you or us or any of it.”

“Too right,” Franky said. She paused, then asked, “What are you doing?” 

“What, now?” Bridget asked. She laughed. For someone who had said they couldn’t talk for long, it was a remarkably casual question. “I’m making dinner,” she said. “I’m using your dressing recipe for the salad.”

“The lemon one?”

“Ahuh,” Bridget said with a wise smile. She picked up the container and shook it by the phone so that Franky could hear the contents mixing together, it was nearly ready to pour.

“Oh Jesus, I could drink a litre of the stuff,” Franky groaned. “Save me some?”

“You bet, baby,” Bridget said. 

“And promise me you won’t visit until I tell ya it’s okay?” Franky asked again. “I don’t want you getting caught up in anything. There’s a storm brewing, Gidge, and it’s a big one, I can feel it. You can’t be near here, I don’t want you near me, it’s too fuckin’ risky for ya.”

“I promise,” Bridget said. “Thanks for the warning, darling.” There was a playful, droll edge to her tone. Franky heard it, because she groaned at her own request and at Bridget’s reply.

“I know you don’t need it, I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I don’t want anyone using you against me, Gidget, that’d kill me, and if you got hurt? Fuck, it’s just not allowed. I don’t want you to pick the worst possible time to visit, and you would too, cos you’re that good.”

Bridget chuckled as Franky paused again. She listened to Franky breathing and gently smiled. 

“Being totally honest,” Franky continued. “I need to focus on myself and surviving this place for a few more days. But I know you believe in me, and thanks for always picking up the phone. I’ll see you soon, all right, Gidge? I’ll give ya a big hug and a million fuckin’ kisses?”

“Promise?” Bridget asked. She bit her bottom lip when she heard Franky’s gentle reply.

“Ahuh,” she simply said. She sounded emotional and it was surely because she was nervous. Bridget pressed her lips together and nodded. “I gotta go,” Franky suddenly added clearly.

“I know you can’t say it back but I love you,” Bridget rushed with a serious smile. “See ya.”

“No stopping me, love ya,” Franky promised before she hung up. 

Bridget bit her bottom lip before she put her phone back down on the bench. She had been prepared to stay away from the prison for a few more days anyway, and it was good to know that Franky had finally been released from the Slot. Vera had been incredibly terse and resistant whenever Bridget had attempted to call to ask how she was. That wasn’t Vera’s job, and the Governor was not about to start making house-calls to inmates in the Slot; that was how Vera put it. Bridget knew that Vera was distracted, she knew part of that distraction was Jake and the rest was likely Ferguson and this ‘political’ issue Franky had referenced, and Vera had already done enough. She had looked after Franky on that first day, both in the immediate aftermath of Iman’s death and afterwards. Bridget knew that Vera had gone to the Slot that night, and she appreciated what the Governor was willing to risk for Franky. 

Bridget wanted to see Franky more than anything else in the world, but she liked that she had given herself permission not to hurry, and Franky also seemed to be hugely supportive of that. There was no need for Bridget to rush to her side or to feel as though she always should be rushing to Franky’s side or her defence; Franky was all right, she could look after herself too, and she would let Bridget know of the best time to visit. Bridget did not think she would need to wait long, because when they were together Franky was the one who always found it almost too fucking hard to let go, even when Bridget said she had to go. Neither of them were very good at pulling away, but that was all right. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? 

While she waited for that next green light, Bridget could finish dinner, have a long shower and read a book in bed before falling asleep, and she could dream of the next time she got to see Franky. Hopefully Kaz and Ferguson would keep her out of their battle, or at least Kaz could give Franky the opportunity to step back from Joan when she was no longer needed. 

Franky did not want to be their hero, she had made that clear already.

*

Bridget dreamed about Wentworth again. When she had still worked there, there had been no escaping the halls. Day and night, Wentworth. She was in her office and Franky was in front of her, not in her teal tracksuit but in normal clothes; dark pants and a dark purple sweater. They were holding each other and smiling as the late afternoon sun flickered across the blinds on the windows. Franky was chewing on her lip and smiling, and Bridget squeezed her hands. 

“You’ll meet me later?” Franky asked. She laughed and added, “Don’t leave me hanging”.

“Never,” Bridget told her. They both looked up to the vent on the ceiling. “Go, be quick.”

She gasped when Franky took her face in her hands and quickly, fiercely kissed her. Bridget moaned as Franky stepped into her and they pressed their bodies together. Franky leant over her and around her, she was warm and consuming, and Bridget kissed her back. She pressed her palms into Franky’s strong, bare back beneath her clothes to grasp her as they embraced. 

“Fuck, I needed that,” Franky whispered as she stepped away and climbed onto the coffee table. She stood on her tip-toes to open the vent. “I’ll see you soon, all right?” she said before she hauled herself upwards with a strength and agility that Bridget didn’t question. 

“No stopping me,” Bridget promised. 

Franky pulled the vent closed from inside the metal shaft and disappeared from view. Bridget then hurried to put the coffee table back the way it was. She opened her desk drawers and began throwing everything that was hers into her see-through bag. Even things that were always in her bag now seemed to be out of it; her keys, her wallet. Her heart raced at how long it was taking, when the task itself was so fucking simple. She was aware of time passing.

Every attempt she made to leave the prison for hours failed. Will and then Vera wanted to speak to her, Channing interrogated her about her knowledge of Will and Jake and the drugs that had infiltrated the prison, and then there was a lockdown because the Freak had attacked an inmate, and at every hurdle Bridget thought about last count, and about how she had to get Franky as far away from Wentworth as possible before anyone noticed she was missing. 

It was dark by the time Bridget was running up the stairs that led to the roof. She opened the heavy door an inch and peered across the roof of the prison building into the darkness. She could just make out the barbed wife on the horizon. A cold wind blustered about her face.

“Franky!” she hissed. Nothing. Fuck! She took a deep breath and tried again. “Franky!”

“Boo!” Franky said as she scurried towards her from behind a large air conditioning unit. “What took you so long?” She was chuckling. “I'm fucking freezing! Help me, Bridget.”

“Come here, sweetheart,” Bridget said. She grabbed Franky by the jumper and pulled her back into the staircase. The door closed, and Bridget threw her arms around Franky’s neck. 

Bridget could feel the cold seeping into her own hands as she held Franky’s icy neck and the back of her head. Franky buried her face into Bridget’s throat and emitted a deep, pained wail that no one else could hear. They hugged tightly, neither of them felt like they could let go.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Franky sobbed. “I tried so hard, I’m so fuckin’ tired. I didn’t do it!”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Bridget said. “I know, I’m sorry too. I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t leave.”

“I wanna go home, love,” Franky whined softly. She lifted her head only to rest her forehead against Bridget’s. Her breath was cold, she was shivering, and Bridget was afraid for her life. This isn’t normal, she thought. Something was wrong with Franky and they had to get away from Wentworth before anyone realised that she was gone, and before she collapsed. What if she died? She couldn’t die! Bridget had to try to save her, there was no one else who could. 

“Come with me,” Bridget said. “I’ve got you.” She took Franky’s hand and they began to run down the stairs. There were twice as many flights of stairs to go down as there had been to climb, but Bridget continued to reassure Franky that they were nearly there, as they navigated them in the dark. Franky kept saying that she felt sick and didn’t want to die, and Bridget promised her that she wouldn’t. Bridget was crying by the time she finally saw a dark door; Franky was about to collapse and her breathing was fast and shallow. She said she couldn’t breathe and Bridget begged her to hold on. They were nearly there, they were nearly home.

She pulled Franky through the door and together they tumbled onto the warm bitumen of the car park. They started to run, Franky had recovered and soon pulled ahead on her longer legs. 

Bridget laughed. It was the happy, innocent laugh of her girlhood as she sprinted to catch up. 

“Wait for me, Franky!” she insisted. 

“Come on, Gidget!” Franky called playfully over her shoulder. “Get those little legs moving! We’re free! We can go anywhere!”

Bridget’s dash to freedom was brought to a halt by Joan Ferguson, who stepped abruptly into her path. She stared down at Bridget with her dark, unseeing eyes and spoke in her measured, low voice that might have been soothing if it didn’t also make Bridget want to wither and die.

Bridget’s breath caught in her throat as she stared up at Joan. Ferguson was in the Governor’s uniform and her black hair was pulled back in a strict bun. Her skin was pale, her lips red. 

“Bridget!” Franky called, panicked. “Bridget, run! Get away from her! Don’t listen to her!”

Ferguson leant down to speak into Bridget’s face. Their long noses were almost touching. 

“Do you think you’re the only one with secrets?” she asked with a tiny, knowing smile.

Bridget lost her breath and sat abruptly up in bed when she woke from that dream. Her heart was pounding, she was sweating and panicked. She reached for Franky but found only cool sheets, and she covered her face with her hands to take several deep breaths and to calm her mind. Franky was at Wentworth and she was safe, Bridget told herself. They were both safe.


	39. Franky

Franky had not lied to Bridget when she said she would try not to get involved in Wentworth politics; she really had tried to distance herself. She had told everyone very clearly from the beginning that she would not challenge Ferguson, that was not her job. It had worked for a while but the tensions inside the prison had escalated and Kaz soon came to ask for her help. 

Kaz wasn’t like other Top Dogs. Regardless of the fact she had been so recently dethroned, when a Top Dog asked for help it was an order; Franky had been no different. Yet Kaz abhorred violence between women so her orders had always lacked the threat of pain and punishment for non-compliance, and Franky could have said no without fear of payback. 

She said yes, though. The truth was that everything everyone had been telling Franky for months was right. She did know things about Ferguson that no one else knew or could only guess, she was one of the only women who could look Ferguson directly in the eyes without flinching, and she could bring the other women along with her; they still respected her. 

Ferguson was terrorising them all, and it just wasn’t on.

Franky had always known that she had the sort of smarts and a strength inside her that most of the other women, and hell, most of the screws didn’t even have. She did have a desire to see justice fairly done. She had known that if she could convince the women that she was innocent of Iman’s murder, if she could make them believe that it had been Ferguson, along with all the other crimes that Ferguson had committed over the past three years – torturing Jodie, hot-shotting Simmo, killing Jess before setting fire to the prison – then maybe they could defeat her. Ferguson could not remain Top Dog, but the women would have to do it together because one woman alone would never succeed; not Franky or Kaz, not even Vera. 

Vera wasn’t even the Governor anymore, and Franky knew exactly how much that job had meant to her. Franky was so fucking sad and pissed off about it, and Bridget would be too, if Bridget knew. Vera was private, she might not have called Bridget to share that loss with her.

So Franky had said yes. She had to do it for everyone, it wasn’t about her it was about them, and if she and Allie actually escaped in the garden project delivery it was about what would be left behind. Who would look out for her girls, for Liz and Boomer? Bea had done her bit. 

Franky had agreed to Kaz’s plan to hold court and to speak for the women because after all, with Franky’s record she was never going to be admitted to truly practise law; this could be her only chance to let fly in a courtroom, however unofficial, as herself. It would be factual but it would also be a performance, a theatre, a spectacle; Franky was too fucking good at it. 

Kaz’s recruits tied Joan to the metal post of the basketball hoop and Franky listed her crimes. 

It happened just as Liz, Kaz and Vera had always told her it would, and it happened just as Franky had always secretly believed it would as well; the women listened to her, they hung on her every word. If they hadn’t heard or believed Franky’s protestations of innocence before, they heard and believed it then. Ferguson killed Iman. If they had only guessed that the rumours were true about Ferguson also killing Jess Warner before starting the fire that nearly brought down all of H block, they heard truth in those words then. And if they hadn’t even known about Jodie and Simmo, they fucking knew it then too. They were screaming at Ferguson by the time Franky stepped back, just like she’d promised Bridget that she would. 

Franky avoided the high-stakes conflict that followed, but she had not been surprised by it. She had knowingly mobilised a mob of convicted criminals and even though no one had given an order to carry out a sentence, sometimes in a situation like that no order was needed; a noose was thrown into the mix and there were loud cheers as the women hanged the Freak by the neck until dead. Or more accurately, until she was almost dead. It was a commendable group effort that would have succeeded if only Vera hadn’t cut her down to resuscitate her. 

Vera was so fucking moral and good-hearted she could not even stand by and let Ferguson be killed, and Franky actually respected her for that. She knew Vera would be second-guessing herself, wondering whether or not she did the right thing while everyone around her grumbled and bitched, ‘you should have let her die’. Franky hoped that Vera knew she had been right not to be a bystander. In that sense she was better than Franky, a better person.

“Franky.”

I didn’t do it, she thought. She stopped in the hallway and separated herself from the group of mostly silent, stunned women returning to their cells. H Block had avoided the lockdown long enough, and the show was over. Franky looked back and into the eyes of the man who had called her name, a good man who she had barely spoken to since she almost killed him by tampering with the Brawler; Will Jackson. He didn’t know that though, she didn’t think. Fuck, he called her ‘Franky’ too, not ‘Doyle’. Did that mean anything? What did he want? 

Franky felt a strong hand wrap around her forearm and looked away from Will and into Kaz’s bright blue eyes. Kaz thanked her silently with a reassuring nod and a small, brief smile. Good job, that look said. You’ll be okay. Franky wondered how the fuck the woman could know that, but she pressed her lips together in an agreeable grimace before she went to Will.

“Vera wants to see you, Franky,” Will said softly once Franky looked him in the eyes.

Franky didn’t know how Vera would be in a fit state to see her so soon. Vera had just given Joan Ferguson life saving mouth-to-mouth, she should have been throwing up in the toilets. Franky frowned but nodded and followed him away from the women returning to their cells. 

“You okay?” Will asked under his breath when they were far enough away from the pack.

Franky nodded but kept her mouth shut. She crossed her arms over her chest and chewed on her bottom lip. She would not have been sad if Ferguson had died, far from it, but Ferguson was still the only other person who had heard Iman’s confession; the Freak could still clear her name, and as unlikely as that was to ever happen Franky found the idea hard to let go of.

Will led her not to the Governor’s office, because that was Channing’s domain now, but to a counselling room not far from Medical. Vera would have accompanied Joan there, of course.

“I’ll wait out here,” Will said as he opened the door and gave Franky a little push over the threshold. The door shut quickly and Franky’s heart quickened. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light because the lights were off and the window blinds were firmly shut. 

“This is clandestine,” Franky said in jest when she was able to make out Vera leaning against the otherwise empty table. Her good humour seemed more important when she heard Vera’s choked intake of breath. “Are you okay?” Franky asked as she took a quick step forward.

“I’m fine,” Vera said, but her insistence was forced. She was only trying to convince herself. 

Fuck it, Franky thought. She crossed that invisible line between inmate and screw and took Vera gently by her nearest upper arm, over her navy blazer. Her other hand pulled out a chair and she silently urged Vera to sit, before she knelt in front of her and looked up into her eyes.

Vera’s blue-grey eyes looked silver in what little light seeped into the dull concrete room. Her gaze was unfocused and her skin seemed pale, but maybe that was just Vera. Franky clicked her fingers in front of Vera’s face to get her attention and genuinely smiled at her. 

“Hey, down here mate,” she said. “Look at me.” 

Vera did as she was told because she almost always did, yet she sucked in another shallow breath and Franky quickly realised Vera was having a panic attack. Had Vera really asked to see her, she wondered, or had Will fetched the resilient, capable Franky Doyle on his own?

“Hey,” Franky said again as she softened her tone further. She rested a hand on Vera’s knee. “Vera, are you with me? Deep breaths, okay? In, and out. In, and out.” She spoke to Vera in the same way she knew Bridget would if she were there. Franky was a pretty poor substitute but she was also the best available alternative. Unlike the other women and even most of the screws – if not all of them – Franky would not hurt Vera and she would not use this meeting against her. “Vera, do you know where you are? Do you know who I am? What’s my name?”

Vera took a breath and rolled her eyes, and Franky knew she was back inside her own head. 

“I’m okay, Franky.”

“You don’t fuckin’ look it,” Franky told her with wide eyes. “But I get it, yeah? Is she dead?”

“No.”

“Well thank fuck for that, eh?” Franky told her. Vera looked at her with sudden, wide eyes. Vera was surprised by her reaction because she expected Franky to spout the same bullshit as everyone else, but Franky smirked kindly at her. “We could be having a ripper party right now, sure, but I don’t reckon you’d have been able to live with yourself. We can’t have that.”

“Did you…um, did you-”

“Did I plan that?” Franky asked. “To hang her?” They looked in earnest at each other for long seconds as they each remembered the unfolding years of their unusual relationship. Franky had sort of hanged people in the past, including Bea, but always only as a threat to make them talk or as payback for fucking with her. Not like this. She shook her head while she looked Vera in the eyes. “No,” she said. “Nuh. The trial wasn’t me either. I just helped out…you know, with my superior oral skills.” She lifted a playful brow and poked out her tongue out.

Vera scoffed but laughed. She covered her face with a small hand and rubbed her brow. She groaned, and Franky used warm hands to squeeze both of Vera’s knees through her pants. 

“You’re okay,” Franky whispered in a soothing voice. “It’s okay. I’m sorry that happened.”

“What happened to you, Doyle?” Vera asked suddenly. She dropped her hand into her lap and frowned at Franky. “What are you even doing here?” She sounded incredulous, like why the fuck would Franky even bother? At least that answered one question, Franky reasoned.

“Will said you wanted to see me,” she said before she thought about her words. “Mr J.”

“Will?” Vera asked with a smirk. 

“You think I’m just some ordinary inmate in here, Vera?” Franky asked, challenging her. 

“You were never just some ordinary inmate,” Vera told her wisely. “You know that, Franky.” 

Franky smirked and nodded. Yeah, she always had, but she had fooled them all into believing otherwise for a long time; Vera, Will, the other women who all thought she was one of them. She had totally fooled herself into believing that too, until she got tired of the mind games and bullshit. Ever since she was a kid she had always wanted to be better than she was and liked for who she was; she just grew up being told she was useless, don’t bother, but once she had surrendered her Top Dog status to Bea and could apply for parole, Franky got to a point where she could no longer refuse herself; she’d had to rise above this fucking awful prison. 

Franky remembered reluctant conversations with Bridget in Bridget’s office about hope, anger and apathy. She remembered letting go of her pain and sadness. She remembered suddenly and yet slowly finding joy, safety and love inside that office too. Bridget’s office was empty now, but Franky didn’t need it full anymore. She had the tools she needed to keep herself safe and to secure her freedom. She would never risk losing herself like that again. 

“Will shouldn’t have brought you here, you shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” Vera said.

“Anywhere near Medical or anywhere near you?” Franky asked. She frowned and stood. “Cos I can bugger off but I just thought, I dunno, that you might need me or something.”

They stared at each other again. Seconds ticked by with only Vera’s watch present to quietly record them. Vera said nothing. Franky opened her mouth and shut it. Fuck it, she thought. 

“Does Bridget know you lost your job?” Franky asked suddenly. “You should tell her.”

“No,” Vera said. She also stood and crossed her arms. “She has enough on her plate with-”

“Me,” Franky said, saving Vera the trouble of deciding whether or not to be truthful. 

“I don’t think you should be encouraging her to visit you,” Vera said as her frown deepened. 

“I didn’t encourage her,” Franky said. She smiled a bit and shrugged. “I fuckin’ begged her, Vera. I had to see her those times, but look, I’ve told her a million other times to stay away.”

“It seems that she can’t.”

“Well I get that, neither can I,” Franky said. “I love her. I’m in love with her, Vera.”

Vera scoffed and rolled her eyes again. She couldn’t cope with Franky’s honesty. 

“What, you think it’s bullshit?” Franky asked. “After all this time? It’s been a year since I walked out of here, I’d be free if I wasn’t set up for Pennisi’s murder, I’d be off parole. It’s been almost two fuckin’ years since Bridget and I laid eyes on each other. It’s fuckin’ real.”

“No, I know that,” Vera said. “She said the same thing, that’s all. About, um, loving you.”

“Good then,” Franky said. She bit her bottom lip and wondered where that left them. “So um, honestly, are you gonna be okay? I can sit with you if you want. I won’t harass ya.”

“I’m fine, I’m busy, you should go,” Vera said, yet she called Franky back before Franky could leave. “But thank you,” Vera added. 

“Just remember,” Franky told her. “Ferguson and probably everyone else in this shithole is going to say you’re weak for not letting her die. Channing, the women, screws like maybe even Linda? It’s bullshit, Vera, and if that’s the voice you’re hearing in your head, you tell it to get fucked! The truth is if I was out there living my real life, if I was at work or on the street and I saw another person’s life in danger the way you saw it happening today, I’d have done the same as ya. Today I couldn’t, cos in here I’m not me, and I dunno how many times I have to keep saying it but I’m not a killer, I didn’t kill anyone and I’m going to prove it.”

“I believe you,” Vera said with a simple smile. 

“You’re braver and tougher than you look, y’know,” Franky said. She shrugged. “Just tell yourself that whenever you start to hear those assholes’ manipulative voices in your head. You’re a good person, a million times better than that prick Channing or the fuckin’ Freak.”

“You are too.” She smirked and added, “It’s a low bar, but what the heck.”

Franky chuckled and tipped her head to acknowledge that her compliments needed work.

“Listen, call Bridget,” she said, happy that Vera believed her and thought she was good. She hoped Vera still felt that way about her once she really was back living her real life. “Say hi.”

“Okay, I will,” Vera agreed. “You won’t um…say anything?” She gestured around her. 

“Narr, God no,” Franky assured her with an earnest frown and a shake of her head. “I freak out too, yeah? Just breathe and find a quiet place like this to chill and you’ll be okay. I won’t talk, this is just between you and me…Vinegar Tits.” She grinned and poked her tongue out. 

“Oh fuck off, Doyle,” Vera huffed under her breath, but she was unable to hide her smile as she put her hands stubbornly on her hips. Franky was the reason Vera was saddled with that nickname around the prison, and Vera had to know Franky was reminding her of their past only to reinforce how different she was in the present. She didn’t want to make trouble for anyone, least of all Vera; Vera was Bridget’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. Franky just wanted to get back out there to live her life. Was it that much to ask for? She hadn’t killed anyone!

“Okay?” Will asked when she emerged from the office. 

“Yeah,” Franky said as she looked at him curiously. “All good. I didn’t try to kill Ferguson.” 

“Spoke to Bridget lately?” he asked, completely ignoring her as they walked towards her unit. Franky guessed that Will already knew she was innocent. “She hasn’t visited in a while.”

“Yeah, cos I was in the Slot for a week for another murder I didn’t fuckin’ commit,” Franky said as she rolled her eyes. “And I told her not to come after that. I knew something was brewing and I didn’t want her getting caught up in the middle of it, to be used against me.”

“I get that,” Will assured her. “She got a new job, did you know?”

“No?” Franky asked. She looked at him curiously. “For real?”

“Yep. I called to see how she was going, I know how hard it is to leave this place behind.”

“Augh, don’t fuckin’ remind me,” Franky said as she groaned. “Fuck, I wanna go home.”

“She’s doin’ okay, y’know.”

“Yeah-yeah, okay without me, I get it,” Franky huffed under her breath. Yet she pressed her lips together and reminded herself that Bridget was entitled to be thriving. She had been alone and feeling lost, and she had sacrificed her job for Franky and these bullshit murder charges. Bridget was stressed out and Franky had told her to stay away, and she was finally listening. Of course it was awesome that she was happy and coping; Franky didn’t want her not to be. 

“Narr,” Will whispered. “Not without you. Just okay.”

“Thanks,” Franky mumbled. She felt guilty for needing to hear it. “What’s the job? Where?”

“Little counselling service,” he said. “It’s called, ‘Life Solutions’.”

“Fuck, it sounds like a hole,” Franky said on a sad laugh. “She’d hate the fuckin’ la-la title.”

“Ah they’re all like that; ‘Insight’, ‘Positive Outcomes’. She said she’s looking forward to it.”

“It must be new. She didn’t mention anything to me but I’m happy for her, I’m proud of her.”

“That’s nice, Franky,” Will said. “You did well today too. She’d be real proud of you too.”

Franky shrugged and scrunched her nose up. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about her trial performance and what had happened afterwards. She didn’t like the feeling that she might have encouraged the hanging; she knew Kaz was devastated by the violent confrontation.

Franky did know the women better than Kaz, however, and she still was not surprised. There was nothing she could have done short of actively trying to stop it, and the women could have just as easily turned on her for that too. Franky had promised she wouldn’t get involved. No matter how she felt about standing by and watching it all unfold, that promise meant more. 

“Can you get me the business address?” Franky asked. She looked him briefly in the eyes. “Please? I wanna write to her.”

“Your mail’s gonna get opened and read, y’know,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Franky replied. She nodded and genuinely, softly smiled. “I don’t give a fuck, hey.” 

“All right,” Will said. “I’ll look it up and let you know next time I see you.”

“Tomorrow?” Franky asked. 

“What’s the rush?” Will asked. 

“Um…” Franky bit her bottom lip and searched for a believable excuse. She laughed as the most obvious – and correct – one struck her. Why not, right? She could say it. “I miss her?”

“God, you’re pathetic, aren’t you, Doyle,” Will teased. He chuckled. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Fuckin’ oath.” Franky nodded and searched his eyes with a bold, truthful look on her face.

“Fair enough,” he said. His brown eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. “Tomorrow.” 

“Thank you,” Franky said with a grin. “And if you talk to her again, tell her I’m okay.”

“Always do, don’t I?” Will said. He stopped in the hallway; this was as far as he would walk with her. “Rest up,” he told her when she looked into his eyes. “Look after the other women.”

Franky smirked at him and cocked her head confidently to the side. 

“Always do, don’t I?” she mimicked. 

Franky returned thoughtfully to her room after that. She felt better. She thought she had really helped Vera, albeit briefly and even though Vera probably would never admit to it in public. She might admit it to Bridget though, if Vera kept her word and called her. It wasn’t that Franky wanted Vera to check up on Bridget, but rather the other way around. Franky wasn’t sure exactly what was going on between Vera and Channing, or Vera and the other screws; Vera was working alongside them as though she hadn’t just been the Governor of the prison. 

At the very least, Bridget was the best listener Franky had met, so if Vera did need to talk to someone, Bridget was her gal. Franky hoped Bridget had found someone to talk to as well, about all the shit Franky put her through. Franky wasn’t sure she had apologised enough. Yet.

Franky was definitely going to rectify that and she did not care if she spent every day of the rest of her fucking life making it up to Bridget, making sure Bridget knew she was loved. 

Franky couldn’t wait to see her and to tell her that again. It was going to happen much sooner than Will or Vera or anyone else knew. Allie didn’t even know, and Franky wouldn’t tell her.


	40. Bridget

Bridget stared at the business cards she had collected to have with her at her desk, so that if she got asked what the office telephone number was, she could sound confident reciting it, or if she was seeing a client in her new office she could simply hand them a card. Life Solutions. 

I need some of those, she thought to herself. She leant back in her chair in the quiet office.

Life Solutions was on a main street but it was in a semi-industrial area on the city’s outskirts, and there was not a lot of foot traffic. Most of their clients lived locally and came to them with referrals from GPs. Medicare footed the bill for the vast majority of services they provided. This was not a high-end, high-income clinical psychology business, and Bridget was okay with that. She had spent the majority of her working life in prisons, working with men and women from disadvantaged backgrounds who were carrying pain and trauma.

Bridget still wanted to do that kind of work, she was an expert in forensic psychology, and thankfully the psychologist whose business it was seemed open to allowing her to work with parolees. It would take a while to set up but Bridget was confident it could be arranged, and she knew she could build on a reputation in that professional community that was already solid; she knew most of the better parole officers in the city, including Franky’s. They would see her moving into private practice as a positive step and they would send clients her way. 

Who knew, Bridget thought, one day she might even branch out and start her own practice. 

But even if Life Solutions told her that they were too worried about security or some other bullshit, Bridget would suck it up and deal with the men and women who came to see her for the more everyday reasons. She was just thankful to have a job. She had been so fucking worried that at forty-seven years of age no one was going to want to hire her, especially when most of the partners in these firms were around her age or younger, and there were thousands of younger psychologists competing for far fewer available full-time jobs just as eagerly.

Bridget knew that despite her size she could be pretty fucking intimidating and a lot of very intelligent, mature employers baulked when they realised how extensively she had worked across the prison system, as though that reflected something of her personality that they felt wouldn’t be appropriate for their own private practice. 

Bridget wasn’t out to tarnish anyone’s reputation, but she also was not about to pretend that she was one of those soft, la-di-da, calm blue ocean types just to get a job. She sat, she listened, she offered insight and asked important questions. She tried to encourage resilience in her clients, she offered reassurance and practical coping strategies. She was a good psychologist, dammit, and the thing that most employers didn’t understand was that for most of her career she had very quickly earned the respect of men and women that society had deemed to be incapable of respect. Bridget believed otherwise of course, but if she could establish respectful, trusting relationships with people who had taken lives, she could do the same with the woman who couldn’t leave her house, or the man struggling with depression.

Life Solutions had seen that, and they had called her the day she sent them her resume and had asked her to come in. They did see a lot of disadvantaged clients there, it was a low socioeconomic part of the city and it was an area of low employment and high homelessness. It was a fucking ridiculous business name but the underlying mission of the business was sound, the psychologists who worked there seemed down-to-earth and kind, and Bridget was hopeful that she could fit in and make a name for herself on this quiet road outside of the city.

It was definitely better than staying at home, which achieved nothing now that she’d had a decent holiday and had caught up on a lot of sleep and self-care. Leaving Wentworth had lifted a weight from her shoulders and here was a job she could more easily leave at the door every night. She still went home to an empty house, but she could allow herself to focus on people other than herself and Franky during the day, and that was important. She could not focus so intently on their personal situation that she lost all perspective professionally; she still enjoyed the work and she would not do that to herself again now that she was free. 

However, her job meant she would not be able to visit Franky so often. Life Solutions were actually in desperate need of her help as their client numbers soared, and Bridget was going to be booked most afternoons during the week. She would be able to visit on weekends, but she was still waiting on Franky to grant her permission to do that. Bridget needed to respect that Wentworth was Franky’s space now, Franky needed to look after herself and she was actually very good at doing that. Bridget needed to trust her and she did. She also did not want to fight at their visits; she just wanted to hold Franky’s hands and look her in the eyes and reassure her that they could put their life back together, home was still waiting for her.

Bridget’s mobile phone rang and she hesitated to answer it when she saw it was Will. He had called her just the day before to see how she was doing. Bridget supposed he sometimes also thought of Fletch and the other guards and prison staff he had seen come and go. Some coped better on the outside than others, they weren’t that different to the women in that way. 

What were the chances he was calling just to say ‘hi’ again, though?

“Hi Will,” Bridget said when she answered on the fourth ring. 

“G’day Bridget,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Bridget drawled as she smirked. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I thought I’d check with you first, yeah? Franky wants the address of your new job. I got it off the Internet and it’s here ready to go, she says she wants to write to ya, but I wanted to make sure that was okay with you before I go ahead and give it to her.”

“Oh,” Bridget said with wide eyes. Her heart leapt at the thought Franky might actually write to her. What would she write? ‘I love you’? Would she write about her dreams? Bridget had never received love letters before. Or maybe Franky just wanted to write about her dull days, almost like keeping a record of her time, and Bridget would enjoy reading that too. Fuck, she would read anything that woman put down on paper for her, she would fucking cherish it. “Yes,” she said to Will. “Yes it’s fine. She knows the mail will be scanned and uh, read?”

“Yeah, and I reminded her of it too,” he said. “She doesn’t give a fuck, was her answer.”

“O-kay then,” Bridget said with a dry laugh. “Go ahead. Thanks for thinking to ask me.”

“Well I thought it was a bit weird,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “She wouldn’t write to your home, Bridget?”

“Maybe not,” Bridget said, as she thought about that too. Maybe Franky didn’t want Bridget to be opening her letters at home, as though that would make it harder, and maybe that was true. Bridget would take the letters home of course, and she would read them before bed every night in an attempt to fall asleep with Franky’s voice in her head; that sincere, half-asleep and always emotional,‘I love you, I love you,’ which Franky mumbled only half-consciously often as she reached for Bridget beneath the covers. Bridget missed that, she missed falling asleep holding Franky’s hand and whispering, ‘I love you too’. Bridget was sure that shared past was still in Franky’s mind as well, those memories were important to her because she had never had that level of trust or love in her life before. She had never shared a bed like that before, and truthfully neither had Bridget. She’d never had a lover like Franky.

Franky wouldn’t want to upset Bridget, knowing what a state Bridget had been in just weeks earlier, and maybe it meant something to Franky that Bridget wouldn’t have to go through that anxious process of opening love letters from Wentworth for the first time in their bed.

“Franky has her reasons,” she said to Will.

“Yeah, what’s new, eh?” Will said, partly in jest. He thanked her and they hung up without discussing Franky or the prison any further. Bridget was better off not knowing, and he and Vera both respected that. All she cared about was Franky and her own friendships with them.

*

As though the universe was out to confirm to Bridget that those friendships were real and did exist outside of Wentworth, Vera arrived on her doorstep that night bearing red wine and chocolate. Bridget laughed happily as Vera held up her goods with a small but hopeful smile.

“Wow,” Bridget said as she rested a hand on her jaw and chuckled. “Good day?”

“No. Are you busy?” Vera asked. 

“No, of course not,” Bridget said. “I was just going to order a pizza. Come in.” She opened the door when Vera nodded gratefully, and Bridget stepped aside to usher her inside. It had been a long time since they sat down together to share a drink and a debrief. Maybe something significant had happened at Wentworth recently, Bridget thought, given that both Will and Vera were touching base with her after a few weeks of very little contact. Bridget was sure Franky was all right, but she wasn’t sure everyone else was doing so well.

“Thanks,” Vera said. “Ironically…like you, I didn’t have anyone else to talk to.”

“It’s fine,” Bridget said. She collected a corkscrew and two wine glasses that hadn’t been used in weeks and brought them to the table. Vera opened the bottle. “No Jake tonight?” Bridget asked as she watched Vera pour a modest amount of wine into each glass. 

“No Jake at all,” Vera said. She collapsed into one of Bridget’s dining chairs and sighed. “And sorry, I didn’t think, Bridget; you don’t have to drink if you don’t want to-”

“It’s fine,” Bridget said again. She put a hand on Vera’s shoulder to reassure her further. “I’d love to share a drink with you, but I’ll order the pizza first so sit tight. Any requests? This place is gourmet, they even managed to please the seriously good cook I live with.”

“Anything,” Vera said. She paused before adding, “Maybe something with pineapple?”

“Done,” Bridget said. “I am starving!” She ordered over an app on her phone before she sat down and took a sip of the robust red that Vera had brought with her. She was mindful of savouring the drink on an empty stomach at the same time as she looked Vera seriously in the eyes. “So what’s going on?” she asked when Vera said nothing and avoided her eyes.

“I’m an idiot, Bridget,” Vera mumbled as she stared at her hands wrapped around her glass. “Everything has just…” She paused and rolled her eyes. She laughed softly, incredulously, like she couldn’t believe where she was. “It’s crumbled, and I let it happen.” She put her elbows on the table to cover her face with her hands. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“We have time,” Bridget reasoned gently. 

“Ferguson,” Vera said, as she sat up and looked Bridget pointedly in the eyes.

Bridget’s eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips at the mention of the former Governor. 

“What’s she done?” she asked in a wary voice, as her memory recalled the way Ferguson had cut out Juice’s tongue and left it in a box for Vera in her office. That was Bridget’s last real memory of the woman, and she had not forgotten that at least one person on staff had to have looked the other way for it to happen; there was no evidence she’d done it, but it was her.

“What hasn’t she done?” Vera replied in a frustrated huff. “Channing’s Governor now, I’m just me, surprise! Jake was with her all along, she told me to my face and he didn’t deny it when I confronted him about it. The women put her on trial and tried to hang her today-”

“Wait, what?” Bridget asked as she frowned and let her mouth hang open. “Is she-”

“Oh no, she’s alive,” Vera said with wide eyes. She pointed to her chest. “I cut her down, Bridget. I resuscitated her. The women were holding Linda hostage in the yard and we were ordered to stand down by Channing but I had to go in there…they know me, I had to step in.”

“Is Linda all right?”

“Yes. I talked the women into letting her go and she wasn’t hurt. I didn’t think they would set out to hurt her but I’ve been there before, Bridget. I’ve had the needle or the shiv pressed against my neck and this time it was Channing who refused to let us help, as though he now takes pleasure in watching the women try to kill each other and it doesn’t matter if a screw gets hurt along the way, it’s disgusting. I couldn’t let what happened to me happen to her.”

“That’s understandable, Vera,” Bridget said with a concerned frown. “You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Vera mumbled as she looked at her hands again. “Linda thinks I should have let Ferguson die just like everyone else does, I could see it in her eyes today, in all of their eyes.”

“You said it happened in the yard?” Bridget asked. “How did they get a noose in there?”

“I don’t know, Bridget,” she mumbled. “They hung her from the basketball hoop. It was a rope but I didn’t see where it came from. I know Kaz Proctor didn’t have anything to do with it because she was screaming at the women to stop, ‘no’. The whole ‘trial in the yard’ was her idea and it was meant to convince the women to turn away from Ferguson as Top Dog.”

“I’d say it worked a little too well,” Bridget teased with a gentle smirk. Vera scoffed and nodded. Bridget pursed her lips. “Was uh…was Franky involved?” she asked tentatively. 

“Yes but I spoke to her afterwards. Kaz would have asked for her help. We all know Franky is one of the only women there who can sway the majority, and she can do it fast, Bridget. They turned so fucking fast! Franky spoke about all of the things Ferguson has done over the years, and some of it was still only rumour to a lot of these women, you know? But to have Franky stand there and demand they all believe her…the women turned on Ferguson before Franky even finished speaking. Kaz wanted a vote for Top Dog, the women had other ideas.”

“Oh boy,” Bridget hissed under her breath when she looked into Vera’s wise, shocked eyes.

“I don’t think Franky knew the hanging was going to happen either,” Vera said. “But she is such a powerful speaker, and she didn’t try to stop it. She said she couldn’t.”

Bridget was about to admit that she had asked Franky not to put herself in harm’s way when Vera started laughing again, a soft laugh of disbelief and self-deprecation. Vera rolled her eyes as she tipped her head back and spoke towards the ceiling. 

“She was trying to make me feel better. She said if something like that happened at her work she would have done the same thing, she would have cut them down and done CPR.”

“Of course,” Bridget agreed. Franky was nothing if not empathetic, it was just the sort of thing Bridget might have expected her to say, and of course it was true. Franky was interested in justice, she cared. Bridget cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Did that surprise you?”

“Yes,” Vera said as she blinked back tears. “She was standing right in front of me, we were alone, and I didn’t even recognise her. She was beautiful and kind, Bridget. She didn’t ask for anything in return other than recommending to me that I speak to you about my job. But she’s exacted payback before and I have no doubt she has threatened at least one hanging. She was a violent Top Dog, more violent than Bea and certainly Kaz. Perhaps not as violent as those before her, though. Or not as cold, I should say. Whatever Franky is, she’s not a cold person.”

“Oh God no,” Bridget said as she laughed in agreement. “She’s fierce and passionate.”

“I don’t know what happened to her. The woman I spoke with today, she was really nice.”

“I’m so proud of her,” Bridget said. Tears filled her eyes and she smiled. Well done, Franky.

“Is that what falling in love does?” Vera asked her. “Can it change someone like that?”

“No,” Bridget whispered. “Love can motivate and bring moments of joy and a sense of safety, but people still make their choices, good and bad, and they remain who they always were at heart. I know Franky has a violent past. Trust me, I’ve seen that violence and I’ve seen her in pain and full of anger towards herself and others, and it can be frightening, but in her heart she is a good person, she always has been. Liz used to call her a little mouse when she got upset and needed a cuddle; there’s an insight for you, just between you and me.”

“Liz calls her that, really?” Vera asked with a confused frown. Bridget wondered if she was trying to picture Franky ‘needing a cuddle’ like a sad or scared little girl. If only she knew. 

‘I just wanna hold ya,’ Franky had said to Bridget. Bridget’s arms were aching just as badly.

“Mm,” Bridget said with a wise smile. “Liz is like her mum, please don’t say anything-”

“No, no, I won’t, I promise. Do you, um, do you call her that?”

“No,” Bridget said. She smiled thoughtfully. “I call her darling or baby, sweetheart, or love. If I’m feeling very brave I might call her Francesca. The point is that Franky was born gentle, loyal and kind, just as she was born clever and fierce; she hasn’t become a different person. She hid her heart from the world and fought with strength and anger as a child because she wanted so badly to protect herself from her mum; being angry stopped her crying which stopped her from being beaten up, yeah? And it kept her safe in prison as an adult, because no one could match her, but it’s exhausting being that angry all the time.” Bridget hesitated and blushed before adding, “And maybe falling in love required Franky to free those parts of herself, but she made that choice, she was tired and she was ready; love didn’t do it for her.”

“That’s nice. I thought I was in love,” Vera mumbled. “Maybe I was, but I listen to you and her talk to me about each other and I don’t know anymore. I don’t feel anything tonight.”

“I am so sorry to hear about Jake,” Bridget said seriously. She frowned as Vera took another sip of her wine. “You said…he was with Ferguson. I assume you mean she was in his head?”

“She ‘employed’ him,” Vera said in a bitter voice as she rolled her eyes and looked desperately at Bridget. “His job was to get close to me, to make me fall in love with him, to learn private things about me that he could feed back to Ferguson for her to use. We were living together, Bridget, just so that all of this could be revealed to me…to hurt me.”

“Do you know if his feelings were genuine at all?” Bridget asked. 

“I don’t know,” Vera huffed. She blinked back tears and smirked. “So what if they were? He’ll never be free of her, you know how she operates.” 

“And your job?” Bridget asked. “What the fuck is Channing doing as Governor?”

“Nothing, apparently,” Vera said plainly. “He did nothing today when all of this was happening, and he’s done nothing about Jake even though I am certain that Will was right and that Jake was responsible for bringing all of those drugs into the prison. I am not accustomed to drug dealers barging into my home to threaten me in the middle of the night…his excuse was piss-weak, frankly, and Channing’s done fuck all about it.”

“What?” Bridget asked on a gasp, stunned by Vera’s angry language. She wasn’t as surprised that Jake had turned out to be less than perfect, but she would keep that to herself. “Vera-”

“Sorry for swearing,” Vera said on a sigh. Bridget smirked kindly as Vera shook her head and blinked back tears. “I’m so angry, and I’m sad.” She swiped at her eyes. “I know it’s a totally different situation to you both and I’m so embarrassed but I felt like you might understand.”

“Oh Vera, I do,” Bridget assured her. “This isn’t your fault.” She clasped Vera’s shaking hands across the table and offered her friend a watery smile. “You did the right thing today,” she added. “Cutting Ferguson down, saving Joan as well as Linda. You’re not an idiot.”

“I let them both use me.”

“You fell in love,” Bridget countered.

“That was a mistake,” Vera said firmly. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It won’t happen again, at least not where Jake’s concerned and not for a very long time.”

“Have you told him off yet?” Bridget asked with a raised brow.

“I’ve tried,” Vera said. She wept and Bridget let go of her hands so that Vera could wipe her tears off her cheeks. “I haven’t found the words. You know I’m not good at, at speaking my mind. I try so hard. Franky opens her mouth and everything that comes out is fucking perfect, and I…I open my mouth and stutter, and I end up staying quiet and walking away because – I guess just like Franky Doyle! – it’s what I’ve always done to keep myself safe, but it’s never enough and I feel like I have so much to say. I’m tired too, Bridget. I need to change. I want Jake to know he hurt me, I want him to know I’m strong. They all think I’m weak, everyone except you, Will and Franky. I am not weak. I…I survived an awful, emotionally abusive mother too, and God, I’m a middle-aged woman now. Jake manipulated me and I won’t be listening to any more dumb lies or excuses. I want to tell him that. I want to dump his ass!” 

Bridget chuckled. She sat back in her chair and grinned as Vera also started to laugh. 

“Cheers to that, you lovely woman,” Bridget said. She raised her wine glass and Vera joined her, still crying, still laughing. “Vera,” Bridget continued with a softer smile. Vera met her eyes. “You will find the words,” she promised. “When the time is right, you will find them.”

“Thank you,” Vera said. She frowned thoughtfully and nodded. “I hope so. Fucking men.”

“Fucking men,” Bridget repeated as they clinked glasses and drank. “Are you going to quit?”

“No, I can’t,” Vera said. She composed herself with a deep breath, she spoke professionally. “The women are at risk with Channing in charge. Will and I are both staying, for now.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there to help,” Bridget said. She was only partly sincere, Vera knew that.

“Oh God, don’t be,” Vera said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You don’t belong there any more than Franky, you were at breaking point. I’ve been an awful friend to you, Bridget. You came to me in tears and I…I had my head buried so far up my own ass. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bridget said. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” She paused, grinned, and added, “And look at it this way, at least that’s better than where Jake’s had his head buried.”


	41. Franky

Franky was ready. She had her tools, her clothes, and her kite. She was going to escape in the first garden box shipment, she could feel it, but time was ticking. The Freak’s hanging had delayed the shipment by a few days but that was nothing major; she and Allie were all set. 

“If we do get out today there’s something I need to do,” Franky said to Allie as they prepared the boxes they would escape in. The boxes were conveniently coffin-sized, and under Sonia’s watchful eye Franky and Allie were making it look as though the two boxes were being filled with smaller planter-boxes, when really they were packing, unpacking, and hiding each one.

“You’re going to Iman’s?” Allie asked. 

Franky nodded. They were escaping together but they had to split up, at least to begin with. Iman’s house was not the only place Franky knew she needed to be that night. She did not want Bridget to panic when the alarm was raised and Vera undoubtedly called her to tell her.

“She said Pennisi had photos of me but they’re not in the police report,” Franky said, as she explained why she would then head straight for Iman’s address. Franky had it memorised; she had spent hours pouring over the police reports and Iman’s statement and charge sheet, trying to help her prepare a legal defence, and Franky’s memory was fucking excellent. She hoped that this was the pay-off for all of that hard work, she hoped that wasn’t wasted time. 

If Franky could find the photographs Mike had taken of her and Bridget, photographs like the ones he sent her before Iman killed him, then that would link Iman to the crime scene and it would help to support her statement. She told Allie that; this could help to clear Franky of Pennisi’s murder. Of course that was just one murder, and on the other charge the prosecutors could still argue that Franky had been so filled with rage upon discovering that Iman had set her up that she snapped, and when Iman fought back she then snapped Iman’s neck with the sort of strength only an angry, violent person could possess. Given her history, which the prosecution would convincingly argue was admissible in court, what juror would question it?

Franky was trying hard not to worry too much about that though. If she could clear herself of Pennisi’s murder, then surely Iman’s must follow. Even if it didn’t, her own defence in that case was sound; to calmly and sensibly argue that there was no reason for her to want Iman dead, Iman had admitted to killing Pennisi, Iman could have cleared her name. Why kill her? 

Surely at least one stupid fucking juror could buy into that? It was the fucking truth!

“What if you don’t find anything?” Allie asked. 

Franky was trying not to think about that either. After all, she’d already held photographs of herself and Bridget taken by Mike in her hands, and she had burned them. So fucking stupid! 

“I’ll never find them if I don’t look,” she said. 

They continued working, and Franky moved from the boxes in the garage to the outdoor flower beds. They didn’t want Sonia and Boomer getting suspicious that they were always hanging around in the same place, and Franky kind of liked getting her hands dirty in the garden beds. She finally thought she understood why Doreen had liked it so much once too.

Franky was carrying a rectangular pot filled with delicate purple and yellow flowers into the gardens when she saw Liz. Liz had been sedated when the women hanged Ferguson. Boomer said she freaked out in the showers and had some kind of a breakdown, pulling out her hair. Franky knew Liz had been anxious, she’d comforted her through panic attacks in the middle of the night before, but now they were in daylight and Liz looked haggard. She was sniffling.

“Liz?” Franky asked as she put the flowers down on one of the raised beds and leant in.

“I’m okay,” Liz said, yet her voice was choked and she turned away. She was trying not to cry, and Franky knew that voice. She had heard it a lot recently, between herself and Bridget.

“Hey!” Franky exclaimed in a voice full of concern as she followed Liz and caught up to her. “What’s going on?” she asked. Her stomach did a tumble-turn as she reached for Liz and Liz dissolved into tears. “Oh, it’s okay,” Franky said softly as she quickly wrapped Liz up in a tight hug. Liz was like her mum, and she was clinging to Franky? It was devastating to see that she was going through a rough patch at Wentworth, and on the eve of Franky’s escape.

Liz dug her fingers into Franky’s back and emitted a long, pained whine as Franky held her as tightly and warmly as she could. It’s okay, she thought. Everything was going to be okay.

“I’m sorry,” Liz said, as seconds passed and as she regained some composure. Franky did not let her go. She leant back only to take Liz’s face in her hands, and she kindly brushed away the older woman’s tears. Franky offered Liz a watery smile and raised her eyebrows. 

“What’s going on, eh?” she asked again. “Shh, you’re okay,” she whispered when Liz choked on another sob and struggled to look her in the eyes. “Aw Liz,” Franky mumbled. “Tell me.”

“I…I’m Witness X,” she said. 

Franky’s mouth dropped open and she clasped Liz’s face again. Her wide eyes searched Liz’s for any sign that she was making this up, but Liz could barely look at Franky. She had to be telling the truth; she was the anonymous witness in Sonia’s trial, the one who had flaked out on the stand. Sonia was back inside and had copped a plea to killing her husband, but she’d gotten off scot-free on the charge of killing her best friend, Helen, because this ‘Witness X’ took the stand but the defence had found new evidence that disproved the witness’ story. 

The whole shamozzle was all over the prison. Gossip was a fucking past-time for the women and they were all still trying to work out who ‘Witness X’ was. It was Liz? Fuck!

Franky led her to a seat amongst the raised garden beds, and she sat down as well and took her hands. 

“I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind,” Liz said. 

Franky hadn’t lost her mind though; Sonia was a piece of work. Anyone with half a brain could see she was cold and calculating, on top of being a stuck-up bitch. Liz was in danger.

“You need to put yourself into protection. You’ve gotta get away from it all, she’s crazy.”

“I can’t go back there,” Liz said in a shaky voice. “Last time I wanted to open a vein.”

It wasn’t the first time that Liz had lagged, and she had been punished for that, but the women hadn’t forgotten. Franky could hardly believe that this time Liz had lagged to the cops, she had gone to court and she had taken an oath to tell the truth, and she lied!

“I wanted to help Helen’s kids,” Liz said. “Give ‘em so closure.”

You don’t even fucking know them! Franky wanted to roll her eyes and lecture Liz but she kept quiet and listened to her friend, her prison mum, the best mum fuckin’ ever. 

“And I wanted to get outta here and get on with my life,” Liz said. “You can understand that, can’t you love? The whole thing was a set-up, fuck!”

Liz started to fall apart again and Franky’s soothing, motherly, “Hey, come on,” did not help. 

“Can you protect me, Franky, please?” Liz asked. “Because Sonia, she won’t come after me if you look after me, I’m safe with you, can you look after me, please?”

Fuck, Franky thought as she looked deeply into Liz’s bloodshot, warm brown eyes. Fuck. 

“You just need to calm down, okay?” she said. I’m not Top Dog anymore, Liz, she thought. If anyone could protect Liz now it was Kaz, with her no-violence policy between the women.

Could Franky really fob her off like that though? No, she couldn’t. That soon became clear.

“She said…she said she was gonna kill me,” Liz told her. Franky could not let that happen. 

She went straight back to Allie inside the workshop. 

“It’s off,” she said. She put one of the smaller planter-boxes back into her escape box. Fuck! “I gotta look out for Liz, she’s going through some shit.”

“Are you insane?” Allie hissed. “We can’t cancel our plans now.”

“We’re postponing,” Franky reasoned. It wasn’t forever. She would not be able to live with herself if Liz was killed. Liz had kids, and Franky didn’t want to have to call Sophie up while Soph was serving time for DUI and vehicular manslaughter over in the cruisy farm prison to explain that there was nothing Franky could have done to stop it, because Franky was too busy trying to escape. She would always wonder if there was something she could have done.

“I can’t leave her like this, okay?” Franky said when Allie protested. “I need to figure out a solution.”

“Yeah but today is our only shot.”

“There’ll be other shipments,” Franky insisted. “Maybe as early as next week.”

She could figure something out before then. All she had to do was talk to Kaz, they could come to some kind of arrangement. She had helped Kaz topple the Freak, Kaz owed her.

“They are going to find those boxes,” Allie hissed. “They’re gonna figure out what we’re up to and then they’re gonna shut this place down!”

“I can’t abandon her,” Franky stated. She thought Allie should understand, of all people. If this was Kaz and not Liz in trouble, Allie wouldn’t even hesitate to say the same. Liz was one of the only people in Franky’s life who had seen her for who she really was, who had taken Franky on when she was still shrouded in anger and who had loved her even on the days when she exposed all of her faults to the world, when she gave Liz every reason to loathe or even fear her. At the end of the day, Liz still held her when she cried and she let Franky feel like she belonged to a real family, because no matter how often Franky went off the fuckin’ rails, Liz always forgave her. If that wasn’t unconditional love then Franky didn’t know what was. Liz had taught her how to love a person like that, and Franky would be grateful forever.

Bridget was a pretty good teacher when it came to that too, she thought. Bridget had forgiven her, or she would when Franky could finally hold her hands, get down on her knees, and ask.

“It’ll happen, okay?” Franky said to Allie. It all had to happen, Franky needed to go home to her family. She needed to see her dad and Tessa too. “We will get out of here, just not today.”

She was angry at Sonia for forcing her to delay her plans, and she allowed herself to be angry when she got the chance to catch Sonia alone, to order her to stay away from Liz. Sonia liked to play the calm, naïve old lady card, but Franky didn’t buy it. She had met a lot of old ladies inside Wentworth, they were very rarely stupid. Mostly they killed husbands or mistresses, and Sonia had killed both in cold blood; Franky barely knew the facts but she was sure of it.

“If you wanna get to Liz you’re gonna have to come through me, and if you try it I will snap you like a twig, okay?” she said, with all of her seriousness and authority, and that playful, nose-scrunching, don’t-fuck-with-me attitude that had never left her, even when anger had. 

Franky’s spunk and her strength were a part of her and always would be, and they were pretty fucking valuable parts that she wanted to keep, because Bridget loved her for her playfulness and her strength and confidence just as much as she loved her for how empathetic and tender she could be. In fact it was the tenderness that scared Bridget more. Franky remembered the look in Bridget’s eyes in the library the day Vera interrupted them just as they were about to kiss, when Franky’s fingertips had ever-so-gently rested on Bridget's jaw and her bottom lip.

Franky was only ever a monster when she had to be, to save herself or someone she loved. So Sonia could just back the fuck off Liz, and if Sonia ever turned on Boomer? Heaven help her. 

*

Yet Franky could not help her disappointment, Plan B had come so fucking close to success and she had been so fucking sure that this time nothing could go wrong. She took off her hoodie and set it aside. She stared at her collage kite on her pinboard, made from the sexy girl magazine pages Boomer had found for her. She had just sat down on the bed to think when Liz came in. She looked calm but spoke too quickly and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You know what I was saying before?” Liz began. “I just got a bit panicky love and carried away, but I’m okay now. I mean Sonia’s all talk and I have not been sleeping well, and I actually reckon everything just, y’know, came on top of me at once.” 

“Liz,” Franky said in a gentle voice as she stood and moved closer. “She threatened you. It’s not gonna go away.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liz said. “And that’s why just to be sure…I’ve decided to tell Miss Bennett and I’m going to put myself into protection.”

“But you hate it there,” Franky said. Liz hadn’t been exaggerating earlier, she wouldn’t cope.

“Yeah but I’ll be better prepared this time,” she insisted anyway. “And it’s not forever love, I’ve only got a few years left, that is gonna fly by.”

Bullshit, Franky thought. Liz’s smile and her positivity was not convincing. Nowhere else in the world did time move as slowly as it did inside Wentworth. It fucking stopped! 

“Liz, if you need me to look out for you I will,” Franky promised. She squeezed Liz’s hand.

“Honestly, I will be fine,” Liz said, speaking slowly to enunciate each word. “I’m tougher than I look.” She gripped Franky’s hand tightly by her side and winked. She sounded good, more like herself, and Franky let herself believe that Liz would be okay if she left. 

“You sure?” she asked anyway. There was still time, Liz could change her mind. Liz nodded.

“Mm, and I’m sorry I got you so worried, love.” She let go of Franky’s hand and went to leave, but Franky called her back. She dug her hand into her pocket to retrieve her silver kite.

“Hey Liz,” she said as she held the delicate necklace with the red string tail out to her, at the same time as she grabbed one of Liz’s hands. “Take this. It’s kinda been my lucky charm.” Franky’s voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears as she let the necklace fold down into Liz’s palm. Franky closed Liz’s fingers around it then, because it belonged to her now, Liz needed it more. “It’s given me strength,” Franky explained. “Maybe a little bit of courage.”

Franky allowed Liz to see a flicker of a nervous smile; she knew she might not see her again.

“That’s beautiful,” Liz proclaimed as she wept. “You bloody softie, you’re making me cry.”

“Come here, you old bag!” Franky teased to try to hold herself together too. She hated seeing other people cry. Unless she was strong enough to pout through it or feign apathy she was at least as likely as anyone else to want to cry as well. And this wasn’t a stranger, this was Liz. 

Franky threw her arms around Liz’s neck and shoulders as Liz hugged her back tightly. 

“Oh my God,” Franky whispered, because she fucking loved this warm, generous woman and she never wanted anything bad to happen to her. Liz cried against her and Franky wrapped a strong hand around the back of Liz’s head to try to comfort her. “I love you,” she added. She didn’t want to scare Liz, but she thought Liz was somewhat aware of what was going on. Her retraction was too soon, too sure, the timing too convenient, but Franky had to let all that go. She could not sentence herself to a life spent inside Wentworth protecting Liz, and Liz didn’t want her to, it was as simple as that.

“I love you too, my girl,” Liz said in a choked voice full of affection. “Lovely, brave Franky.” She buried her head briefly into Franky’s neck and sighed before she pecked Franky’s damp cheek and pulled back to look into her eyes. “You don’t need a kite when you can fly, love.”

Franky’s heart wrenched when she thought she heard Liz say goodbye. She knew? She stared at Liz with wide, searching eyes, but Liz simply clasped her face just as Franky had held her earlier, she smiled a strong and reassuring smile, and then she left Franky on her own. 

Fuck, Franky thought. She was going to miss Liz so fucking much! She sniffled and used the backs of her hands to wipe her dripping nose and to dry the tears from her cheeks and eyes. Franky so fucking scared about what she and Allie were going to do, actually. Escaping was a big deal, every cop out there would be looking for her. She could be killed but she had to try.

“Get changed,” Franky said when Allie came to her cell and Franky told her the move was back on. Franky had already changed into dark jeans and an olive shirt, hidden beneath her teal tracksuit. Allie smiled hopefully. She had taped the gates as planned so they could get through to the gardens and the shed without an escort or a stolen security pass. When Franky realised Allie had continued on as normal, she thought it was likely Allie had also told Liz of their plans, and that was okay. Allie and Liz each had their hearts in the right place, and after the conversation she’d just had with Liz, Franky knew her secret was safe. “We’re leaving,” Franky said. She watched Allie hurry off, and blinked back tears once she was alone again.

You don’t need a kite when you can fly, Franky repeated in her head. 

Thank you, Liz, she thought. She would always remember that.

*

That afternoon, and with plenty of time before evening count, Franky and Allie snuck into the gardens and across the cement loading dock to the large workshop that housed the boxes and tools. Franky had successfully used the walkie talkie her dad had smuggled in to divert the lingering screw; she sent Williams off to J block to assist with a problem in the shower block.

When she and Allie got to their boxes, marked with a small, black ‘x’ for Franky and red ‘x’ for Allie, they removed their tools from their pockets and slid them inside. The staple gun, and the pliers and surgical scissors; those were the most important, they could not afford to get stuck inside their hidey-holes for long because it really would be like being in a coffin.

Allie was climbing into her box from the marked end when they heard movement outside. Someone was at the door, and they both briefly froze as they listened to the nearby footsteps. Franky had been helping Allie to clamber in and paused with a hand on her back. Boots, not sneakers, Franky thought as she listened. That meant it was a screw. Could Williams be back already? Maybe he ran into another guard who told him there was no problem in J block.

“Shit!” she hissed. 

Allie finished climbing into the box and slid the end panel across, as Franky hid behind a stack of boxes just as the door opened. She didn’t have time to climb into her own box. She crouched and listened as a lone guard entered the garage. A man, judging by the footsteps. It could be Williams or someone else, but she knew it wasn’t Linda or Vera. His radio crackled. 

“Confirmed Sierra Five, no trouble in J block, dunno who made the call.”

Franky recognised the voice that then responded as Jake Stewart, the Deputy Governor. Williams must have walked right into him and asked him about J block, and Jake sent him to check, because of course he wouldn’t have known anything about it either. Fuck! 

Franky tucked herself into the end of an open box on the ground as Jake walked towards them. Franky couldn’t move any further into the box and couldn’t risk trying to cover herself with the end panel lest he hear her, so she focussed on silent breaths and stillness as his footsteps got nearer and nearer. He paused somewhere near Allie. Franky’s heart beat heavily as she strained to hear something, anything, just as equally as she prayed to hear nothing. It was not the time for Allie to sneeze, and far out, she wasn’t known for her stealth, but Franky could hear nothing above the sound of her own heartbeat and Jake’s considered footsteps.

He stopped right beside her. Franky felt like she could hear him thinking. Wondering. All Jake had to do was lean down and look to the left, and he would see her. That would be the end. Yet his radio crackled to life and a lockdown and code black was called. Thank Christ!

He left, and Allie and Franky scrambled to get back to their cells before the lockdown count.

“Just go,” Allie hissed as she extracted herself from her box. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Franky sprinted. Don’t be seen, she thought as she ran. Run fast, don’t be seen. C’mon, push!

She got back to her unit just as Will was about to shut the bars. 

“Hey, Mr J!” she called. He looked at her and held the door open. He didn’t ask where she had been and she appreciated the trust he had in her, and the respect he had for her. She hoped he understood why she had to go. “What’s happened?” she asked. Boomer answered.

“Oh it’s um, Sonia, she’s had a heart attack or something.”

Holy fuck, Franky thought with wide eyes. 

“Where’s Novak?” Will finally asked. 

“I think she’s in the showers,” Franky said. It was the first thing that came to mind and she didn’t think to wait for anyone else to answer. 

“Liz said she’s in Medical,” Boomer said with a curious frown. 

“You might be right,” Franky agreed quickly. Whoops. 

“Well which is it?” Will asked. 

“Not sure,” Franky said as casually as she could. 

“This is Sierra Three,” Will said into his radio without delay. “Anyone seen Novak?”

“Sierra Three, this is Sierra Five, I’ve got her.”

Oh no, Franky thought, even as she kept her face expressionless. Sierra Five was Jake. Had he gone back to the workshop and busted Allie while she was still halfway out of her box? Franky had never actually asked Allie if she could run. Allie was tall and thin so the assumption was there, but Franky never really saw her exercising and she was a bit of an ambler about the halls. Franky suddenly thought that Allie was probably a slow runner, a little bit uncoordinated in a gangly, dorky, ‘why are you making me exercise’ kind of way. 

Franky had no choice but to wait it out. Jake would bring Allie back to the cells if he didn’t march her straight to the Governor first. Franky pictured Vera’s sour expression until she remembered that the Governor was now Channing, and he would just smirk and leer at her. He would think it was really fucking funny, but he was a mean bastard and he wouldn’t hesitate to use Allie or anything she told him for his own gain, either right away or later on. 

There was also no fucking way he would let the delivery go out; he hated that workshop, he hated the women and any project that might give them a sense of purpose or identity, he resented their successes, however small. Maybe he hated all women actually, Franky thought as she waited for Allie. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time cutting Vera down, and thanks to Allie, Franky knew all about Mr Golden Shower’s dirty interest in young female sex workers.

I bet he’s got a tiny dick, Franky reasoned. Misogynists like Channing surely often did. 

However, Allie came back too quickly to have been taken to Channing. Franky was relieved when she said she fed Jake a bullshit story and she thought he had fallen for it. That had been so fucking close! But now they were in lockdown, and a lockdown could last for anywhere between one hour and ten. If this really was just because of Sonia collapsing, though, then Franky hoped it was lifted as soon as the paramedics took the bitch away in an ambulance. 

“Tea?” Franky suggested. May as well, she thought. They had nothing else to do but obsess. 

“Why not right?” Allie replied. The look in her big blue eyes told Franky she understood. 

“As soon as lockdown’s lifted we’ve gotta move,” Franky said as they stood at the sink together.

“I think we should split up,” Allie said. “Just in case Stewart’s watching me.”

“Fuck!” Franky hissed. Splitting up before they even escaped had not been part of the plan, Franky hated last minute changes to carefully thought out plans, they tended to confuse people. Allie was right though, and it was just the two of them. “It’s not gonna be long before the count and they realise we’re gone,” Franky added. In other words, run fucking faster!

“Yeah,” Allie agreed softly. They took their cups to the table in the centre of the unit to wait out the lockdown, just as Boomer ran to the gates to call out to Linda as she passed the unit. 

“Oi, oi, Miss Miles! What’s happening with Sonia?”

“Not a lot,” Linda replied in that dull, expressionless, no-time-for-bullshit voice that Franky thought was actually really fucking clever. Sure, that was just Linda in a way, but she was pretty sure that ‘Smiles’ pulled on an extra layer of droll whenever she donned the uniform. That was her cover the same way Franky’s anger had been an awesome cover for her the first time around. It made her strong, it put a decent barrier up. Linda was known to look the other way for a bit of cash to splash on the dogs and horses, but she wasn’t a sucker and she never turned a blind eye to the really serious shit. She did care, and she was a sharp woman. 

“Oh,” Boomer said thoughtfully. “Right so she’s gonna be okay though, yeah?”

“Critical, might not make it,” Linda said, a little more gently. She knew Boomer was upset. Poor Boomer was so big-hearted, so loving, she loved people easily and fiercely and it was devastating for her when they left. She had cried over Franky’s parole, she cried at Doreen’s farewell party, she had surely been heartbroken when Maxine got that transfer to Barnhurst. 

Sonia had put Boomer in charge of the workshop, she had shown Boomer respect and she had given Boomer a reason to feel proud and important. Franky understood that. She also understood that Sonia had elevated Boomer to that position partly because Boomer did have the skills to ensure the project was a success, and Sonia was the project manager; she hired the best people for the job. Importantly, she had also hired Boomer partly for strategic reasons, to separate her from Liz, to challenge that long-standing alliance, to alienate Liz and to scare her. Franky understood that a lot better now too. Unfortunately, Boomer did not. 

“No,” Boomer said in protest. She rose her voice as Linda walked away. “She can’t die. She can’t die cos I was just talking to her!” 

She turned around to face Franky as her round cheeks flushed pink and she began to cry. 

“She can’t, she can’t die!”

Franky’s eyes went wide as her stomach muscles clenched when Boomer started to cry; like a little kid she just stood there and let it happen. Franky’s bestie, her big loveable Booms was panicking and she was in pain. Franky stood. 

“She’s not-” Franky was going to say, ‘she’s not going to die’, but she couldn’t get the words out. She had always had a hard time lying to Boomer, and Sonia could die, and Boomer didn’t deserve to be patronised like that. She was too good and innocent for that bullshit. 

“She, she, I can’t, she can’t die!” Boomer exclaimed. Her shallow breaths came in sobbing fits as she doubled over by the gate. Franky strode to her on long legs with arms outstretched. She crouched to collect Boomer in her arms before she ended up in child’s pose on the floor. 

“Come here,” Franky whispered with all the love that she felt for her friend. She took Boomer by the arms and hauled Boomer into her own. Boomer folded her tall, pudgy frame around Franky and hugged her around the back as she sobbed loudly over Franky’s shoulder. 

“She can’t die! She can’t!” 

“Shh, Booms,” Franky whispered. She rocked them briefly side to side, unsure whether Boomer even heard her. 

“I don’t wanna lose everyone,” Boomer mumbled as she cried. Franky’s heart felt like it broke a little; she was leaving too. 

“It’s all right,” she still said confidently. “She’s not going anywhere, she’s in a good place, isn’t she. She’s gone to hospital, yeah? They’ll look after her.”

“Yeah,” Boomer sobbed. 

“Shh,” Franky repeated more firmly as she stroked Boomer’s long, brown hair. “Shh.” 

Liz and Boomer in tears and in her arms in one day, she thought. Was it a sign she shouldn’t go? Maybe. Or maybe it was a sign that she should stop looking for reasons to chicken out, because like Vera had asked her outright, what had even happened to her? Franky hadn’t changed exactly, because she had always given Boomer a cuddle whenever she needed it, and she had always been there for both Booms and Liz; they were her girls, they were a fucking team! But this day felt different somehow. Franky felt older or more mature, she felt stronger.

She felt like a real leader, not just a Top Dog taking a break from her angry power trip for half a minute to comfort a mate, rather a woman who loved herself and who loved her friends deeply. But this isn’t my home, she told herself as she fought back tears. I don’t belong here. 

Franky held onto Boomer with all of her strength. Today I am a hugging machine, she thought happily. Franky needed all the hugs too; she was so fucking scared of the future! 

But she had to go.


	42. Franky

Franky took every opportunity for a hug. Even though she would see Allie again in just a few hours when they were free, she hugged her warmly as they prepared to leave. Fuckin’ finally!

“Hey we’re not gonna be able to call off the guard, okay?” she said. “So we’re gonna have to make a break for it.” Franky had hidden the walkie talkie under her mattress and it would not be coming with her this time, that part of their plan would not work again. They had to run.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Allie promised as they gripped each other’s hands and arms. 

“Mm,” Franky hummed. “Okay.” She grimaced. Her heart was beating quickly and her skin felt like it was crawling. With expressive eyes she told Allie just how nervous she really was. This was their last shot so it had to work, right? Franky had no choice but to get out, she had to prove that she wasn’t a killer, she could not spend another night trapped and alone in a cell.

“Good luck,” Allie whispered with a smile. 

Her reassuring voice was exactly what Franky needed to hear, and Franky took a breath and pressed her lips together in a brief, confident smile. We are defs gonna need it, she thought. 

Franky soon left Allie alone in the cell but it was Boomer who followed her first. Franky didn’t realise until they were both outdoors; Boomer came up behind her as she approached one of the gates to the gardens that Allie had taped so that it never locked even when it shut. 

“You’re escapin’,” Boomer said to get Franky’s attention. 

Ah crap-nuggets, Franky thought when she realised it wasn’t Allie behind her. Franky turned to face her friend. She had already said goodbye to Boomer, she had told Boomer outright that she loved her, for fuck’s sake! But then again that might have been what gave her away. 

“Hey?” she asked casually. 

“I’m not dumb,” Boomer said. Fuck, Franky knew that, she really did. She knew Boomer had been watching them. “You’re going out in the garden shipment and Allie’s been helping ya.”

“Oh Booms.” Franky looked honestly into Boomer’s eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

“If you try it I will fucking lag. I swear.”

“You’re not a lagger, Booms,” Franky reminded her. Boomer hated laggers, for that reason alone it was a miracle her friendship with big-mouthed Liz had lasted as long as it had. 

“If you go,” Boomer said, in a shaking voice still dripping with sadness and frustration. “That workshop will be shut down and everything I worked so fucking hard for will be fucked!”

“I’m sorry,” Franky said. She really meant it, but what was she supposed to do? Call it off?

No fuckin’ way. 

“I’m important in here, Franky,” Boomer said. “You can’t take that away from me. I will lag.”

“Booms,” she said. She looked deeply into Boomer’s kind brown eyes. She didn’t mean to use Boomer, she wasn’t trying to manipulate her, she just wanted her to understand. Fuck, Franky wanted her fucking blessing! “I need to prove to those dickheads that I’m innocent,” she said. “Now I had a taste of my life and I wanna go live it. Are you gonna take that away from me?” She took Boomer by the arms and her eyes were filled with tears. “I love you Booms, but I gotta go. I’m sorry.”

Franky let her go and hurried through the gate, but Boomer ran after her. Franky turned to face her and backed up a few paces. They stood metres apart and simply stared at each other.

When Boomer didn’t move towards her and said nothing further, Franky opened the next gated door and ran towards the workshop. She had to cross the sparse concrete loading bay to get there, and as she sprinted towards the workshop’s closed door, it opened. Fuck! 

Franky ducked down behind the nearest cover; several side-by-side stacks of black and orange gardening trays, which reminded Franky of the tidy trays she’d had under her desks in primary school, a long time ago. She winced as she heard a lone guard emerge – probably Mr Williams again, she thought – and she thought she heard him prop the door open. Jake might have brought Allie back earlier, but Franky wasn’t sure Allie was the greatest liar either; what if he hadn’t bought her bullshit story at all? What if the screws had set a trap for them both?

Franky looked back towards Boomer, who had stopped on the other side of the fencing. She hadn’t followed Franky through that final door, and now she was leaning against the fence in full view of whatever guard had taken up his post at the workshop. She could see Franky too, and Franky pleaded silently with Boomer not to say anything. Fucking please! Please don’t. 

Boomer looked past Franky towards the open workshop door and the guard. 

“Mr Williams!” she called. 

Shit, Boomer, please, Franky thought as she winced. Tears filled her eyes once again.

“What?” he asked. 

Boomer’s eyes slid back towards Franky and Franky fucking begged her as best she could. 

“You…” Boomer hesitated as she looked back towards Mr Williams. “You’re not allowed to smoke in here, eh,” she said. “They banned it.”

“Piss off, Jenkins,” he huffed. 

Thank you, Boomer, Franky thought. She briefly shut her tired eyes and choked back a sob.

“Narr,” Boomer continued casually. “I’m just um, I’m just watering the plants, eh.” She picked up the nearest pot plant and casually pretended to piss on it. She circled her chubby hips and Franky grinned. She silently laughed as Boomer met her eyes again and chuckled. 

I got your back, Franky, she might have told her. Fuckin’ go. 

“Get back to your unit,” Mr Williams told her. 

“Hey, you want a gobby?” Boomer asked him, undeterred. 

“I mean it Jenkins, back inside.”

“Narr, narr I just want some action, eh.”

Franky heard him stand. She could see between the boxes and she could hear his footsteps as he walked towards Boomer. He didn’t seem to rush, so Franky skirted slowly around the opposite side of the stacks. She trod lightly on the cement as she crouched, then stood to run into the open door while Boomer distracted the old screw by offering him another blow job. 

“Hey, you want a gobby? Yeah?” Boomer asked him again as he walked towards her. “Come here, I can do you through the fence, eh.” 

What an invitation! 

Mental images like that were some of the brief moments in time that reminded Franky how glad she was to be gay, and how grateful she was that for the rest of her life she was only ever going to go down on Bridget, and Bridget’s was the only pair of lips that were ever going to wrap around her clit again. No cocks required, thank fuck for that; Boomer could have ‘em!

Boomer wasn’t serious though. She was goading Mr Williams, she was half-crying, her voice was shaking and teary. She knew what she was doing, and Franky knew she wouldn’t lag.

Mr Williams hadn’t heard Franky, and Franky stopped in the open doorway to the workshop to look back. Her heart was aching. She might never see Boomer again either. A part of her didn’t want to, because not seeing Boomer and Liz meant freedom and a wonderful life lived with Bridget, but Franky also couldn’t bear the thought. She pressed her lips together in a watery smile and nodded when Boomer once again looked her in the eyes, from all the way across the yard. Franky was so fucking thankful for her, she loved her friend so fuckin’ much.

“You’ve got five seconds,” Mr Williams said to Boomer. “You clear out, or I’ll slot you.”

Franky left them there. Boomer would back away now that Franky was safely inside and could take care of hiding herself in the box marked with a single, small black ‘x’. Franky just had to be settled and silent by the time Mr Williams got back to his post, but Franky knew Boomer would do her best to drag this out, she would buy Franky as much time as she could. 

Franky found her box exactly where she had left it. She pushed the loose end in, emptied her pockets into the container, and climbed in feet-first. She shuffled down, closed the end, found the staple gun in the dim light and sealed herself inside with four staples. Exactly as planned. 

Franky had pulled a lot of stunts in her time at Wentworth but she had never attempted something so daring, and it was fitting that the person watching over her now was the one who always had. She hoped Boomer got back to the unit safely, she hoped she wasn’t too sad.

Seconds of silence stretched into minutes, and Franky heard neither Mr Williams nor Allie.

“Oh shit, come on Allie,” Franky hissed when she realised how long Allie was taking. Run fucking faster, dammit! Best possible outcome: Boomer had forced Mr Williams to escort her back to the unit, leaving the whole place unguarded, and any second now Allie was going to run in. Next best outcome: Boomer had seen Allie coming and was extending the diversion in an attempt to get her through the gate and the door, but they were currently in the middle of all that and Franky just needed to be patient. She could do that. First, she took a deep breath. 

The outcomes that sprang to mind after that, however, were a stressful jumble of panic and dangerous complications, but footsteps hurrying towards Franky suddenly interrupted her. She was instantly alert. Franky identified the shuffle of sneakers not boots, which meant this was Allie – fucking finally! – and not Mr Williams. Fan-fucking-tastic, Franky thought. She relaxed when she heard Allie climb into her box and seal herself inside with the staple gun. 

The rest was a waiting game.

Time passed, and while it felt unnaturally slow Franky reminded herself that it was still passing, and she needed to stay calm. That was just Wentworth fucking with her, and soon she would be free, and time could rush past her as quickly as she could run towards it.

She shut her eyes, focussed on her breathing, and waited for the delivery truck to arrive.

Finally, the beep-beep-beep of a large truck’s reverse alarm caused Franky to smile, and she bit her bottom lip and fought back tears as she and her box were lifted up and into its belly.

There was a quick check on the way out, a female screw stopped the truck and tugged on the straps a few times, but she made no real effort to have the truck opened or the contents searched. That could only mean that so far Franky and Allie’s absence had not been noted. It probably wasn’t even time for evening count yet, Franky reasoned. Suddenly she had time!

Franky spent the drive reminding herself of everything she knew and could not risk forgetting, like Pennisi’s address, the facts surrounding his death, everything she knew about him and everything that had happened between them in the days before he was killed. She recalled meeting Iman and all of the information Iman had told her about her own case, plus all of the information that Franky had been given in helping Iman with her defence, and everything she knew about Iman’s connection to Pennisi. Franky replayed Iman’s confession in her head but edited out the broken neck for the time being. She recited Iman’s address over and over. She recited the address of Bridget’s new job over and over.

Franky reminded herself that she knew her own address, her dad’s address, and Shane’s address. She knew Bridget’s mobile phone number and her dad’s mobile number too. She would carry Bridget’s number on her always just in case something went wrong: she would want Bridget to be notified before the media. She also knew how to get in touch with Imogen and she remembered how to get to work. She reassured herself that she had a plan and she would clear her name. Finally, she allowed herself to imagine what was to come that night, because eventually the truck was going to stop. Franky knew exactly where it was going to stop and she recited that address in her head as well. She mapped out how to get from the warehouse to the place she thought she first needed to be. She just hoped she wasn’t too late.

Will had found her that morning, as promised, and he had handed Franky a slip of paper that was currently tucked into her bra. 

‘I called her,’ he’d said. ‘I asked if this was okay with her and she said yes, so here you go.’

Franky had silently accepted Life Solutions’ business address. She had briefly squeezed his hand as she looked into his eyes and smiled. Her heart had been pounding and she had felt like crying. He hadn’t known why this address was so important to her, but he would soon. 

Franky had later laughed when she unfolded the page in her cell and realised she knew the area. She had assumed that Bridget’s new job was part of a fancy-ass practice in a city office, and she had been planning a quick trip into the CBD before she went to Iman’s, but Life Solutions was actually in an older suburb on the city’s outskirts. The people who lived in the area were often low-income and high-risk, and Franky had spent some time out that way chasing up Legal Relief clients who thought showing up to fulfil community service orders was voluntary. Franky had lived in a couple of foster homes in the area too, and she remembered nights spent staring out of grimy bedroom windows that overlooked the railway tracks. Franky had watched the trains and had imagined the places they might be going. 

This wasn’t the first escape Franky had planned, and as the delivery truck motored along the highway she closed her eyes and thought back on all the plans she had made as a girl, first to escape her mum and then to escape her foster homes, always to find her dad. Franky had only ever wanted to go home, and the only reason she had never managed to go anywhere was because in her heart she hadn’t known where home was. In quiet moments spent staring at those trains while tears trickled down her cheeks, she could admit that she didn’t have one.

Now she did, she had a warm and loving home, she had a safe place, and she knew it in the deepest part of her soul in a way that had been impossible for her to know as an abused little kid. Franky had been clutching the pliers wrapped in plastic at her side, but she let them go and covered her face with her hands to cry in the dark. Finally, all of her dreams were coming true, none of her plans had ever been useless or a waste, and little kid Franky would be so fucking proud of her adult self for everything she had become. That girl would be so fucking excited about what was happening to her now as well; Franky used that idea to calm herself. 

As the truck slowed down and seemed to veer off the highway, Franky grasped the pliers again. She and Allie would need to move quickly because they may not have much time to flee. They had no idea whether the warehouse was guarded, and if everything had run to time then the evening count hadn’t even happened, but if they had somehow lost time on the drive or if their absence had been discovered sooner, then the cops might already be on their way. 

Franky was prepared to take that risk. 

The truck slowed to a crawl and Franky listened to the gears shifting. They ambled over two speed bumps, one after the other, and Franky braced herself against the inside of the box, which sadly had not been fitted with seat belts. Next time, she thought cheekily. She grinned as the truck drifted to a smooth stop and she heard the driver jump out of the cabin. 

She listened to him greet a colleague. Judging by their voices Franky thought they were both fairly young, in their twenties or thirties. One of them opened up the back of the truck and Franky waited quietly to discover whether they would be unloaded now or later. 

“Pack it in, mate.”

“You sure?” the driver asked. His voice sounded close and Franky held her breath. 

“Yeah, not worth the overtime,” his colleague replied. 

Franky scoffed happily. They wanted to hurry home too? Guys, I feel ya, she thought. Go!

They didn’t secure the back of the truck before they left and Franky didn’t even hear the beep-beep of the vehicle’s central locking system. She supposed that a shipment of DIY vertical gardens didn’t classify as high-risk, and that was fucking fine, actually. Brilliant!

As soon as she was sure they had left she used the pliers to unpick the staples above her head. One. Two. Three. Franky listened for any sign that Allie was doing the same. She’d heard nothing from Allie on the drive, and Franky hoped she had coped with the confined space.

Franky did not get a chance to unpick the fourth and final staple before she heard the rumble of an approaching engine. She froze as headlights blasted through the peephole; a vehicle drove into the warehouse and stopped. Judging by the churn of the engine, Franky thought it was a ute or small van, it definitely was not a heavy vehicle. It was likely just a security guard doing a routine check, or one of the guys was back because they decided they should lock the truck up securely after all. She shuffled around to press her eye to the peephole.

Franky tried to watch what was happening but the lighting in the warehouse was dim. She thought she recognised a male figure in dark clothes and a raised hoodie, but no one spoke and she couldn’t see a face or much of a torso, so she couldn’t be sure. The person walked away, and then walked nearer pushing a piece of metal equipment. Franky listened intently. This person did not sound like they were rushing, and Franky steadily grew more certain that this was a man. She had lived for years amongst a lot of women and she had watched the male screws amble around them at their leisure. The women at Wentworth – women who presumably had no need to rush – still often walked more quickly, their steps were lighter. 

Franky bit her bottom lip as metal thudded against wood. Something was removed from the truck and Franky then clearly heard two doors close; he had closed a boot or the hatch of a van before getting into the vehicle himself, because no further doors were shut and he left. 

Franky did not waste any more time. If someone was moving boxes then she and Allie had to move, now. As soon as the headlights were out of Franky’s face she unpicked the final staple and pushed the loose end of the box aside. She slid out face-first on her belly and leant down past the box below her. She pressed her palms into the sturdy floor of the truck and used her arms to support her dangling upper body as she wriggled forward until her legs were free. 

“Allie?” she asked on a whisper. She couldn’t see the box with the red ‘x’ on the stacks directly beside her and assumed they must have been separated when they were loaded. Allie was probably on the other side of the truck, that was why Franky hadn’t heard her! “Allie,” she hissed again, just to be certain. There was no reply. “Fuck.” 

Franky emptied the box of her tools and jumped out of the truck onto the cement floor of the warehouse. She rounded the truck as her eyes remained on all of the boxes. She was looking for movement and listening for any panicked exclamations from Allie. Maybe the scissors Franky had nicked from Medical for her had snapped when Allie tried to remove the staples and she was stuck. But if that was the case then Allie could have been banging on the inside of her box or calling Franky’s name and she wasn’t, and Franky quickly realised why. 

One of the boxes was missing from the top of a stack. The box with the red ‘x’ was gone. 

“Oh shit,” Franky whispered as her heart quickened. She felt sick. What the fuck? “Oh fuck. Fuck,” she said. She hurriedly undressed. Surely the fact that Allie’s box was gone wasn’t a coincidence. What, some guy came and took a box away to steal one of the vertical garden kits and he just happened to take the box with the human hiding inside it? No fucking way! 

Franky had to leave before he came back. She didn’t know what was going on; if Allie had planned a reunion then surely she would have said something. Franky hadn’t told her about Bridget but this was different, they hadn’t split up yet and Franky had trusted her! And if Allie hadn’t known what was going to happen then that was really bad, and Franky had a bad fucking feeling about it, but she could not linger. I’m sorry Allie, she thought as she pushed her tracksuit pants down her legs to reveal her dark jeans. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry!

Franky checked the pockets of her hoodie before she removed it and her hand closed around a folded up piece of paper. She frowned as she retrieved it. Franky was sure she had put Bridget’s work address into her bra, she remembered sliding it in under her left breast. She also remembered poking her tongue out and grinning at herself in the reflection of the mirror in her cell, because inside her head she’d told Bridget something hilarious, like, ‘Nestle in, Gidget, you know you love a bit of boob on boob!’ So it was a dead certainty that Bridget was in Franky’s bra, where she belonged, and that was the only paper Franky was carrying. 

Franky unfolded this other page and discovered a letter written in pen, in a neat, rounded print. Franky didn’t need to look at the name at the bottom of the page to know it was Allie’s handwriting. She held her breath as she read it.

‘I’m sorry but I had to lie to you,’ Allie had written. ‘Mr Stewart didn’t buy my story at all, he was onto me but I think I found a way to protect you, to get you out, so get going. Run like hell and clear your name. You need to prove your innocence, I need to do something else. I loved Bea, and Joan Ferguson took her away from me so I want revenge…in Bea Smith’s name. I made a deal to share my escape plan, we’re getting rid of Ferguson for good.’

Franky read it again as quickly as she could. 

Holy shit, she thought, when she realised that the person she had heard shuffle into the second box had been Ferguson, not Allie. Allie and Jake had, what, gotten together and decided to let Ferguson escape? What the fuck? Was Jake the one who had just driven into the warehouse to pick up the box? Did he know about Franky? How much had Allie told him? What the fuck was he going to do with Ferguson to ‘get rid of her for good’? Had they taken Allie’s scissors out of the box? Could Ferguson unpick the staples and free herself?

Franky couldn’t hang around to find out. She didn’t know how much time had passed since the truck’s scheduled arrival and how that tallied with the evening count. It felt like hours but it might have been minutes, and this letter meant that Allie was at Wentworth, she had never left and she had never planned to. ‘Good luck,’ she had said. Fuck, Franky had to make this break count. She had to succeed now. If Bea was there she would have told Franky to run like hell too, and that was exactly what Franky did. Franky put Allie’s letter into the pocket of her jeans and darted out of the warehouse, alert to any cameras or security patrols; she saw none. She had left her tracksuit and her tools behind but it didn’t matter if anyone found those.

That tracksuit had once helped Franky to feel at home, but she didn’t want it anymore. You don’t need a kite when you can fly, she repeated to herself as she sprinted into the night. In a way it was the same thing; Franky had just found a more authentic, honest way of belonging.

Liz knew that, and so had Bea. Franky fought back tears that grieved for Bea and thought of Allie and how Allie must be feeling as Franky alone sprinted away from the industrial estate. Her lungs were burning and her legs ached but Franky had prepared for this. For weeks she had been on the treadmill in the gym, gradually improving her stamina and working on her sprinting. The plan had always been to run as fast as she could to clear the immediate area, and then to settle into a rhythm that would get her to where she needed to be as efficiently as possible. 

Franky followed the path she had mapped out to get to Bridget. She saw it unfold in her mind as she put one foot in front of the other. She was wearing her most comfortable socks and her white, prison-issue sneakers that were still new enough to support her well. She ran in fits and starts because intervals had always worked for her best, and she laughed loudly when she was afforded the opportunity to try what all the kids in this area did when there was nothing better to do; she raced the train that came from behind, in the place where the tracks ran parallel to the footpath. Franky had caught one of her Legal Relief clients at it one day – a nineteen year old girl with an attitude that left a lot to be desired – but fuck it, it was Franky’s turn now!

The wind was behind her and it pushed her forwards as the chug-chug, chug-chug of the train rattling along on its tracks bore down upon her. She stretched her long legs out for every stride and pumped her slender arms. Franky sprinted beneath the stars and even as the train pulled ahead of her she grinned, because she had reached that magic moment mid-sprint where it felt like she really might be flying. Franky never got that feeling on a treadmill, no one did, because that feeling was reserved only for those who dared the earth to let them go. 

Franky had to stop and double over once the train was out of sight; she had a stitch in her side and could barely breathe. She put her hands on her knees and gulped in air, but she laughed. She absolutely would have fucking caned Allie’s ass if Allie had been there! Franky stood and put her hands on her hips. She looked up into the sky and blinked back sudden tears. 

“Come on!” she growled. She got angry to stop herself from crying. Come on, Franky. Push!

Franky started to jog, slowly at first, but she soon recovered from the stitch and she felt calmer as she returned her focus to where she was headed that night and why. That focus was important, as Bridget might have said if she was there as well. Franky could out-run her too, Bridget was more of a yoga chick, but the difference was that Franky didn’t even want to try.

Another train approached but this time it was coming towards her. These parts of the tracks were in between outer-urban stations that were far apart so the trains often moved quickly, up to eighty kilometres an hour, and Franky savoured the sound of this one as it rattled along. She was close, and it wasn’t just because she knew where she was in her head; she felt close. 

Life Solutions was on a daggy main street that was right around the corner from those tracks, and Franky soon found herself standing directly in front of it. Shit, she knew this street. She recognised the old Telstra phone box out the front of Life Solutions and the bakery beside it. Franky had bought a bad coffee from that bakery not that long ago, but she could not remember whether the psychology business had always been there. Maybe it was new, because the clean glass frontage and the signage along the top was a sparkling gem amidst a strip of old cafes and restaurants that were mostly shut, even though it couldn’t be that late. 

Franky caught her breath and as her wide eyes scanned the signage to confirm that this really was her destination. The well-lit office said Life Solutions, so yep, this was the place, and it was written in white on fucking teal! Had Bridget noticed? Maybe not, Franky thought; a job was a job after all, but consciously or unconsciously maybe the teal had endeared this place to Bridget. It would be a small way to feel connected to Wentworth and Franky every day, and even better, this was the sort of teal that Bridget wouldn’t have to wear home with her. 

Everything Franky could see of the office space looked light and fresh. Bridget can breathe here, she thought. Her eyes filled with grateful tears as she let herself breathe too.

So much of what had happened that day had been the product of good luck and good timing. Jake had surely been just moments away from discovering Franky hidden at his feet when Sonia collapsed. He had then busted Allie instead of Franky as they ran back to their cells. Even Boomer following her to the yard instead of confronting her in the unit; Franky was so fucking thankful that Boomer had done that exactly where and when she had, because Franky never would have made it into the workshop without Boomer there to distract Mr Williams. 

All day Franky had felt as though her careful plans were at risk of failing – from Liz begging her to stay, to the lockdown, to Boomer threatening to lag – but in hindsight every obstacle placed in her way had been vital to success. How did that happen? Franky didn’t understand.

She just needed one more thing to go right for her that day before she dared question the rest. Her heart was aching for that joy.

Please, she wished as she searched beyond the glass of Life Solution’s shopfront for any sign that Bridget was still there. It was dark but it could not be that late, and it wasn’t as though Bridget had Franky waiting with dinner. Please be inside, she wished. Look for me, Gidget. 

Franky laughed when she saw her. Bridget was wearing tight black pants and a tight, white top beneath a funky-ass collarless jacket with three-quarter sleeves. Bridget had a wardrobe full of ‘em and Franky recognised this one. She could not believe her timing, it was unreal! 

Bridget emerged from one of the back offices with a man about the same age as her. He had a brown beard and glasses and he was much taller than Bridget. He was wearing a suit, and Franky did not think that this was a client because Bridget was walking half a step ahead of him towards the door as they talked. This guy was her boss, perhaps, or at least a colleague. Franky watched them leave the building and the man casually waved goodbye to Bridget. 

See me, Franky wished as she bit her bottom lip to temper her grin. See me, love. 

Bridget looked up. Her bag was slung over her shoulder and she was holding her car keys. Her eyes narrowed and her lips parted as she zeroed in on Franky. She had stepped from the footpath onto the street in front of her silver car that was parked right there; Franky hadn’t seen it at first. She assumed Bridget had moved it closer to the entrance because it was late and she was alone, but Bridget was not alone that night, not anymore. Franky watched her chest rise and fall with each precious breath. She smiled at the urgent, disbelieving expression on Bridget’s face. Bridget was looking at Franky as though she was an oasis in the desert, like she wasn’t really there. I’m fucking real, Franky tried to tell her, and she was thirsty too. 

Franky could have crossed the street, she badly wanted Bridget’s safe and tender touch, but she chose to remain on the footpath with the empty road between them. If Franky took Bridget in her arms to disprove her doubts she might never let her go, and Franky could not compromise Bridget like that. Vera was going to call Bridget right away, the cops were going to interview her repeatedly, Franky’s own dad was probably going to question her too, and harbouring a fugitive was an offence that carried with it the possibility of a custodial sentence. Franky would do everything in her power to make sure that never happened. 

So she did the only other thing that she knew would reassure Bridget that her sight was true.

Franky spread her arms wide, like a bird spreading its wings after an injury. She was free. She felt healed.

“I love you!” she called in earnest across the street. 

Franky remembered bumping into Mike in the cafe on the day this truly all began for her. She remembered thinking she didn’t recognise her own voice as she said thanked this man who had helped to collect her dropped folders. That had been a bullshit thought, Franky realised.

Franky knew her voice, she had always known it and Bridget knew it too. Hell, Franky could say a fucking ‘thank you’ to a stranger and ‘I love you’ to her partner as well as anyone, if not better. Her sensitivity and empathy had the capacity to overwhelm her heart and mind, and convincing herself that she did not deserve those feelings and was incapable of expressing them was the most self-destructive thing Franky had ever done. Bridget knew that, she was always quick to hug Franky as they lay tangled half-asleep, or to simply say, ‘I love you too’, but Franky no longer needed that immediate reassurance. This time she could wait.

Bridget hesitated on the other side of the street. Her eyes widened while her stare hardened. Franky knew Bridget’s instincts were telling her to cross the road because Bridget had inched forwards even as she held herself back and took a careful step nearer to her car. Bridget knew Franky was really there now, but she was concerned and that was okay. Franky just hoped that Bridget wasn’t angry and that she understood. Franky let her tired arms fall to her sides. 

“And I’ll be back,” she promised. Her voice cracked but she refused to cry. She was strong and she needed Bridget to see that. She was brimming with hope for their future. She smiled, but she turned and ran away before Bridget’s willing heart could overrule her cautious mind. 

I will be back, Franky thought again as she ran. She was going to clear her name, she felt it deep within her terrified, hopeful heart. Bridget was right; Franky was a dreamer, but Franky hoped that Bridget felt that same certainty. Franky knew her plan was risky and that people might get hurt, but she was innocent – fucking innocent! – and if at the end of all this, leaving now meant that she was free and that she could go home and spend her life with Bridget, then whatever the cost of escaping Wentworth was to be, it was a price Franky would gladly pay.


	43. Epilogue: Bridget

Franky?

Bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. Franky was standing on the other side of the street directly opposite Life Solutions, directly opposite Bridget’s car, directly opposite Bridget?

Bridget’s heart began to race as her mind tried to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. It was a weekday, it was nighttime, and Bridget had just finished a long afternoon and evening of appointments with new clients. She was tired but she’d had a good day, she felt like she could do some good work with the people she had seen, and so far she hadn’t had a client who decided not to make a follow-up appointment; that was really fucking positive. 

Bridget didn’t know what to make of Franky standing in front of her now, though. She wanted to run to her, but she was also terrified. The scared, slouched woman in the ill-fitting teal tracksuit was no longer, and the real Franky – Bridget’s Franky – was dressed in dark pants and her olive green t-shirt. She stood tall. Bridget could see the phoenix tattooed onto her left arm, from her tricep beneath the sleeve of her shirt, down her forearm; the red, blue, yellow and green of the soaring bird was illuminated by the dim yellow of the nearby streetlights that added light to Franky’s wide green eyes and her hopeful, if not hesitant smile. 

I’m here, that look said. I made it. 

Bridget knew that Franky could only have been standing in front of her for one reason, and given the fact that Bridget had checked her phone not five minutes earlier and she’d had zero missed calls, there was every chance that Wentworth was yet to discover Franky missing. 

Holy fuck, Bridget thought when her mind stretched to grab onto that truth. 

Franky had escaped…from a fucking maximum security prison. Bridget could not remember the last time she heard of anyone – man or woman – escaping from a place like Wentworth. For Franky to have made it all the way to Bridget was indescribable. It was fucking incredible! Bridget took a half-step forward just as she took a deep breath. Her heart ached. 

Bridget understood why Franky had escaped, the signs had always been there. Bridget had heard Franky’s desperation at being back inside, she had seen her determination to prove her innocence, she had witnessed her frustration and she knew that Franky had been searching the ventilation shafts in the roof; she may even have made it onto the roof. Of course there was no way out of Wentworth from any of its roofs short of calling in a chopper – that was laughable – but in Bridget’s absence Franky had clearly found another way, and maybe that was okay, Bridget realised, because Franky never would have stopped trying. She would have died trying, but she was alive; she had just escaped Wentworth and she had come to Bridget. 

She ran to me, Bridget thought, as her eyes searched Franky’s and Franky spread her arms. 

“I love you!” Franky called to her. It wasn’t the frustrated, desperate, ‘I fuckin’ love you’ she had shouted the day Bridget resigned and said goodbye. It was just as genuine, but an earnest exclamation, full of innocence and excitement.

Bridget wanted to say it back. She tried to at least make her mouth move to whisper the words, because even with a street between them she knew Franky could see her lips. Franky was looking at her openly, as though her eyes were trying to memorise every part of her, and Franky’s senses would be so heightened at this moment in time that she might even hear her.

I love you too, Bridget thought. She couldn’t make her face work. Hear me. 

“And I’ll be back,” Franky promised. 

There was so much that she didn’t say, Bridget realised as she watched Franky turn and run. 

I’ll clear my name, and I’ll be back. When I’m done fighting, I’ll be back. When I’m worthy, I’ll be back. I’ll be back, and we’ll be safe. We’ll go home. I’ll be back, and we will be free. 

Bridget leant against the bonnet of her car and covered her nose and mouth with the hand not still clutching her car keys. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears as she stared at the corner around which Franky had disappeared, as though Franky had never been there to begin with. 

Bridget sucked in another deep breath and exhaled a pained whimper into her palm. She tried to hold onto the joy in Franky’s voice and in her expression – in her whole fucking posture – but fear quickly grabbed onto that joy and began to rattle it. This was going to end badly, she thought. Vera would be so angry with her, the police would be involved before the clock struck midnight, and Bridget was positive they would hunt Franky, they might even kill her. 

Run, Franky, Bridget wished as she tried to bring herself to move too; to get into her car and go home. She knew Franky wouldn’t be there and she was sure the police wouldn’t be there yet either, but it was only a matter of time before both Vera and the cops came knocking, and they would not leave her alone. A part of Bridget did not want to go home at all, not without Franky, not to all of the shit that was to come. She wanted to run too. She wanted to hide, too. 

Hide, sweetheart. 

Bridget had no fucking idea how Franky was going to prove her innocence as a fugitive, twice, but Franky clearly saw no other way. Legal Relief did not have the resources to investigate the connection between Iman and Pennisi, and Franky had her legal training. All she had to do was find evidence to justify reasonable doubt in the minds of the arresting detectives or, at worst, twenty-four jurors. But the question that always stumped Bridget was that even if Franky could prove her innocence with regards to Mike, what about Iman? 

Bridget hoped that Franky had a smart plan, one that allowed her to stay one step ahead of the police for as long as necessary. She hoped the police who eventually found her were carrying tasers, not guns, and that Franky surrendered willingly if it came to that, because whether Franky was to be freed or returned to Wentworth to await her trials, Bridget wanted ‘I’ll be back’ to equate to having Franky back with a beating heart and air in her lungs, not back in a coffin. The idea of Franky’s lifeless body was devastating; death was a type of freedom that Bea had sought, but it that was not the freedom Franky was seeking. What she really wanted, what they both wanted, was a life together. All Franky had ever wanted was a loving home. 

This had to work, Bridget realised. This might be their last chance to be free of Wentworth, and at the end of the day Bridget wanted Franky to come home with every beat of her own anxious heart. But at what cost? Franky had just escaped from a maximum security prison. Fuck! Bridget was terrified about what would happen now, she wanted Franky to be safe.

Please stay safe, she wished as she finally got up the courage to get into her car to drive.

“You’ll be okay,” Bridget whispered to herself and to the empty seat beside her, illuminated by the signage beside and above her car, a sign that read, ‘Life Solutions’, which they so desperately needed. “I’m here. And love, if you can’t come back I’ll find you, I promise.” 

Bridget didn’t give a fuck what that cost. She would risk everything to go home, too.


End file.
